


rules of the game

by thatsparrow



Category: The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Mild Gore, Reader-Insert, Road Trips, Slow Burn, does Lucille count as a character?, good lord what am I doing, she totally counts as a character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-06-07 08:50:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 71,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6797308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your breath is catching in your lungs and your heart is pounding so hard in your chest you feel like your whole goddamn body is shaking. Your world has narrowed to the anger and fear-induced tremble in your limbs and the rough and relentless hold of Negan’s fingers on your skin and the amused, expectant look he wears on his face as he looks down at you. </p><p>Fuck, fuck, <i>fuck</i>  — </p><p>--</p><p>After saving you and your group from a pack of walkers that would have guaranteed your death, Negan has you down on your knees with a barbed-wire wrapped baseball bat in your face and a decision to make: surrender everything you own over to the Saviors, or join the Sanctuary and agree to work for him.</p><p>And even though he's acting as if you have options, there's really only one choice you can make. (Negan/Reader)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You’ve thought a lot about dying, though— _hell—_ these days it’s hard to think about much else. You always figured it would happen at the teeth or fingertips of a walker — if you were lucky, the bite would be a solid chunk out of your jugular and you’d bleed out fast, but you’d seen their dirty and rotted nails ripping through the soft skin of some poor fucker’s abdomen more times than you cared to count, and you knew that was a possibility too.

Dying with the red ribbons of your intestines spilling out like shiny and fallen streamers wasn’t really how you wanted to go, but these days, “want” didn’t much factor into the equation.

Or, you’d think, maybe it would happen staring down the round black barrel of a gun after trusting someone you shouldn’t have. Walkers were by no means the most dangerous things out there, and the tar-black depths of human depravity this world continued to dredge up never failed to surprise you in the worst goddamn way possible. 

Then there were the decidedly less exciting options — starvation, dehydration, infection. Not quite so romantic as a daring moment of self-sacrifice, but the likelier option by far. You couldn’t keep fighting with wasted and emaciated muscles or the sandpaper rasp of your tongue in a Sahara dry throat or the angry inflammation and fever of infection racing with abandon through your weakened immune system. There were moments when food or clean water or antibiotics were worth killing for, and— _fuck_ —you hated that you knew that first-hand.

In short, no goddamn lack of ways for your ticket to get punched. In fact, if you weren’t spending every precious second fighting to stay alive, you could almost appreciate how inventive the world seemed to have become at finding ways to kill you. So the question of dying had no shortage of answers—an ugly truth you’d had to swallow real goddamn fast—and these days, the name of the game was survival, by any fucking means possible. It was so goddamn easy to lose—family, friends, hope—that the only constant you could really fight for was the right to keep your lungs and heart going a little while longer. And, no, it wasn’t much — but it’s funny how goddamn _important_ something becomes when it’s all you have left.

So— _hell_ —when the opportunity comes to trade in your fear and your desperation for the promised potential of safety, is it any wonder you’d be tempted to say yes?

Because God stopped fucking playing fair the day he decided to send the walking dead to purge the world in a flood of fire and ash and blood. 

Given the new rules of this game, making a deal with the devil was the only fucking move you had left.

 

* * *

 

“Chase, Wendy? How’s it going over there?”

“Batteries still in their packaging and honest-to-god unopened cans of food — this place is a fucking _gold mine_.”

You’d decided a quick supply run to the neighboring town was worth the risk and _hell —_ you were glad to see it was paying off. With Marie and Luke standing guard outside and the place seeming relatively deserted, you felt safe enough for the time being. But if you wanted to make it back to the gutted office cubicles you were currently calling home before the sun set, you would probably need to wrap up this trip fairly goddamn soon. 

“Then grab whatever looks good and let’s get back to the van. We can always make a return trip in the morning.”

“On it.” Wendy and Chase’s mingled shouts call back, carrying easily through the empty store to where you’re crouched down digging for usable supplies of your own. 

But then Marie comes busting through the front door at full fucking tilt, knife dripping and stained with pieces of gooey red viscera and dread settles like a familiar rock in your stomach when you see the look on her face.

“We need go.” She says, voice quiet and deadly urgent. “Fucking _now_.”

“How many?”

“Maybe twenty or thirty coming down from either end of the street.”

“ _Shit_.”

From outside, you can hear Luke’s shouts for help and warning cries and you could kick yourself for being so goddamn _senseless_ as to think you’d finally started to catch a break. Fingers hooked around the strap of your backpack, you sling the canvas over your shoulders and sprint down the aisle towards the front, knife already out of its sheath and ready in your grip.

“Get Chase and Wendy,” you call to Marie as you reach the registers, “find out if there’s another way out of this place.”

“What about you?”

“We can’t leave Luke alone out there or he’s fucked. And if there isn’t a back door and the walkers box us in, _we’re_ fucked.”

Marie nods and begins running towards the back of the store, nimbly dodging her away around toppled shelves and strewn pieces of merchandise as she goes. You trust her—she’s smart and understands this game just as well as you do—and know that there’s only one place you’re needed now. Feeling that familiar surge of adrenaline kickstarting your every evolutionarily designed instinct, you dash out the front door onto the sidewalk, bell ringing pathetically in the background as you find yourself standing at the goddamn gates to hell.

_Fuck_. 

You figure Marie’s estimate about right — only now those two groups are starting to meet in the middle and its a hell of a lot closer to fifty or sixty shambling bodes with decaying outstretched arms zeroing in on your oh-so-very vulnerable figure in the middle of the street. 

“Luke!”

He’s trying to get his back to the windows of the store front, but two or three walkers have slipped behind him and if he’s surrounded then _shit_ because there is only _one way_ that story ends. Knife in hand and heart beating through your chest you jump forward into the fray, blade quickly sinking into the soft spot at the back of their head that’s become very fucking familiar. With those walkers dispatched, you’ve got your opening in the swarm and Luke seizes the opportunity to break out of the mob and join you outside the front door, breathing heavily and spattered in gore as he gives you an appreciative nod.

“Should we get inside?”

You shake your head as you move forward to knife another in the temple, pulling the blade free from where it’s sunk deep into rotting skin. “Not yet. If the others can’t find another exit route, _this_ is our only way out of here. And we’ll be well and truly shafted if we let these assholes start stacking up against the windows.”

Luke nods in understanding and the two of you keep working as fast as you can to keep the pavement in front of the store clear. But the bodies are starting to stack up and the dead just keep fucking _coming_ and you can feel that adrenaline starting to crystallize into something that seems a hell of a lot more like fear.

All of a sudden this is beginning to look like the end of the goddam line and—painful and _weak_ as it is to admit it—you’d be a liar if you said you weren’t starting to feel scared.

Marie comes bursting out of the front door a moment later, Wendy and Chase in tow, shaking her head in response to your unasked question. _Shit_. And now there’s five of you and fucking _fifty_ of them and you don’t know if it’s going to be enough except— _shit, shit—_ because it _has_ to be.

“Back to back!” You call out to the others, fitting yourself into the gap between Luke and Marie, Chase and Wendy on the other sides completing the arc. “We keep them back, keep knocking them down — we’ve got this.”

But it sounds like bullshit, even to you, and then you hear a scream to your left and Wendy’s got three of them on her like goddamn leeches and she’s on the ground and blood is spilling out of her in bright cherry waves and fuck, fuck, _fuck_  —

And then there’s the goddam _roar_ of an engine revving, the sound echoing down the street that you were starting to think of as your grave, and a big black beast of a truck comes barreling down the pavement, smashing right into the fucking middle of the mob of walkers as a dozen or so men jump off the back. From your periphery you can see sunlight catching on the metallic sheen of hammer-heads and crowbars and _fuck_ knows what else, rising and falling in deadly repetitive fashion, pulling the bulk of the mob’s attention off your exhausted group of survivors. For the briefest moment, you begin to wonder if the five of you will make it out of this one after all.

Not a small part of you can’t help but marvel at the ruthless efficiency of the men, at the large and effortless swath they cut through the mass, moving with a sureness and ease that screams this is barely more than an errand or a mild inconvenience for them. You’ve never known that kind of certainty in this world — you didn’t even know it existed. And then it’s over, the street littered with the hacked-up corpses of maybe sixty walkers, and now that you’ve got a moment to breathe and consider the group of men in front of you, you can’t help but wonder if you maybe weren’t safer before.

You count thirteen of them, all dressed in similar shades of blood-stained leather and denim and steel that they wear like a uniform, gore-streaked instruments held from callused and unconcerned fingers as they eye your small group with stares that range from vaguely intrigued to downright fucking _predatory_. Behind you, you can hear Chase’s choked and soft hiccuping sobs as he kneels down next to Wendy’s lifeless and half-devoured body, his tears falling onto the still lines of her face as he buries his knife almost reverently in her forehead. And you know he loved her and you want to comfort him—really, you do—but Wendy is already gone and there’s no mistaking that you are at the mercy of the men in front of you  —  your fate hanging like a delicate thread between deadly and capricious scissor blades. 

“You know,” a low, rough voice calls out across the street, the sound sending a brief shuddering chill down your spine. “You know, this is real fucking perplexing. This is a fucking genuine mystery to me. See, here we roll in like fucking God himself sent us as your very own divine fucking deliverance and what? Nothing? Fucking _nothing_?”

And as the man steps forward, leather jacket stretched over the broad silhouette of his shoulders, barbed-wire wrapped baseball bat tapping thoughtfully against the tip of his steel-toed boot, you recognize that this isn’t a group of thirteen men  —  _no_ , these are twelve soldiers waiting on orders from their very own goddamn general.

“I mean don’t try and tell me you assholes weren’t fucked — I think the fact that your friend’s guts are painting a fucking Rorschach on the sidewalk is fucking proof enough of that.” He pauses, tilting his head toward where Chase is cradling Wendy’s figure. “Fuck me, is that prick _still_ crying? What a goddamn fucking pussy.” He took another step forward, the dull _clunk_ of his boots sounding impossibly loud in the silence, baseball bat swinging carelessly at his side. “Anyway — where fucking was I?” His eyes drift from Chase to Luke and Marie—standing behind you like anchors and you’ve never been so grateful for their support and trust than this moment—to you.

“ _Right_ , as I was fucking saying — we show up like your very own personal fucking salvation, saving you pathetic fucks from joining your dead fucking friend and you just fucking _stand there_?” By now he’s only a few feet away from you, eyes meeting yours steadily, and you _hate_ the subtle tremor in your fingertips, how small you feel in his presence.

There’s no denying that he’s in charge, and the goddamn bastard _knows it_. 

“I mean am I asking for a fucking statue built in my honor? Am I asking for a fucking parade or the key to the fucking city? Fucking _no_. But I would have thought that saving your fucking lives would at least have warranted a fucking _thank you_.”

He turns to his men standing a few feet behind him, his arms stretched out wide in some mocking form of supplication. “Fucking honestly. Am I really asking for so fucking much here? For one simple fucking thank you? I mean, it’s not like I’m ordering them all to get down on their fucking knees and say, ‘thank you, Negan’ — am I?” There’s an easiness—an amusement—in his actions that’s got you pinned to the spot, that’s got your shaking fingers tightened into fists and your knuckles white. 

Because now this jackass— _Negan_ —is just toying with you, and there isn’t a single goddamn _thing_ you can do. He turns back to look at you, an undeniable shit-eating grin painted in broad brush strokes across his face as he considers the fury and frustration and fear in every line of your stance.

“Actually, fucking scratch that.” Negan says, walking closer with those confident and careless strides. “You know, I fucking lied — and I do apologize. That’s on me.” And then he’s in front of you, his height outstripping yours by at least a head, the broad and built lines of his muscular figure spelling out clearly how weak you are in comparison to him. 

You have to tilt your head up slightly to keep meeting his gaze, the fact not lost on him as he smiles down at you. 

“I want all of you down on your fucking knees — right this fucking instant. And I want _you_ —” and now his fingers are underneath your chin, keeping your head tilted up to face him and you couldn’t look away even if you wanted to, “—to fucking say, ‘thank you, Negan’. And then I’m going to decide what happens to you fuckers next.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look, I have three midterms I need to study for and an essay to start writing and this is honestly /the last/ thing I should be working on
> 
> but somehow Negan has gotten inside my head and is refusing to shut up until I sit down and write this story. and as it turns out (fucking surprise to no one) he is as much fun to put on the page as he is to read
> 
> (note: this Negan is primarily inspired by the character from the comics, as he's the one I know best and am more familiar with, but there are definitely elements drawn from JDM's portrayal as well)


	2. Chapter 2

You realize right then and there that you hate him.

Because he’s not wrong — without him and his men, you were fucked. Solidly and undeniably _fucked_. You had burned through the last of your nine lives and used up every single scrap of luck and were on the doorstep of meeting your fucking maker when Negan and his men had strolled onto the scene and brought you back from the brink without breaking a single goddamn drop of sweat. 

He’d saved you because he could. Not because you mattered or because you were significant—really, you and your group were pretty goddamn incidental to what was happening here—but because in this new world, Negan and his men got to decide who lived and who died. 

He’d found his role as judge, jury, and executioner — and _fuck_ did he love it. 

So now that attention is turned on you and Marie and Luke and Chase and those weapons and instruments of death that served up your salvation could just as easily become your undoing. 

You have no fucking interest in bending to the will and whims of this bastard. 

But— _hell_ —do you really even have a choice?

“Something I say not fucking clear?” Negan asks, and now the smile has slid from his face, his voice lowering to a quiet and deadly whisper. “The four of you fucking simple or some shit?” Out of the corner of your eye, you can see his men starting to spread out, surrounding your small group in a rough semicircle that quickly stamps out any hope or whisper of escape. Behind you, you can hear the unsure shuffle of Luke’s sneakers on the pavement and the soft hitch of Marie’s breath in her throat and you don’t blame them for being afraid because so are you. You’re treading water somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic and you are so far out of your depth right now that the only thing below you is endless inky black ocean and a leviathan waiting to swallow you whole.

“See what you fuckers don’t quite seem to have grasped,” Negan continues, eyes roving lazily and unconcerned over the group, “is that we hold _all_ the fucking cards here. The outcome of your currently undecided and very fragile fucking fate fucking belongs to _us_.” He begins to pace a slow pattern in front of you, tracing a path back and forth along the gore-streaked pavement. “Something you dumb fucks might want to consider as there are thirteen of us and fucking four of you. And if that math is still too fucking complicated, then I’ll spell this shit out — all I’m fucking asking for is a little fucking _gratitude_ for having gone out of our way to save your fucking asses.” Negan pauses in front of you once more, one eyebrow cocked as he considers with undisguised amusement the anger that you’re barely keeping restrained beneath the surface. “Now does that really sound so fucking difficult?”

And, no, it doesn’t. 

But, alternatively — _fuck_ him. 

“I know this is a tricky fucking pill to swallow, sweetheart,” Negan says, moving forward so he’s standing just in front of you, head lowered so the words become a whisper for your ears alone. “But if you want to live—and I’m willing to bet a pretty fucking penny that you do—you’d best fucking learn to choke it down and _do as you’re told_.”

He leans back slightly so you can see the feline curve of his smile. And now his bat is tapping another rhythm again his boot,  but this time it isn’t contemplative or thoughtful — this time it’s a threat. This time, you can hear the barbed wire clicking against the steel of his boots, and you know you’ve lost.

Cheeks flushed an angry red, mouth set in a tight line, you lower your eyes to the pavement, and— _heaven help you_ —you kneel. 

You can hear the slight scuffs and disturbances behind you that indicate Marie and Luke are following suit, and your head drops in embarrassment—in _shame_ —that this is what it’s come to.

“Now that’s more fucking like it!” Negan declares broadly, a genuine cheeriness suffusing his words as his men give low laughs around you. “ _That_ is what I’m fucking talking about — and about fucking _time,_ too.” He plants the barrel of the bat on the ground in front of you, hands resting on the handle as he considers your bowed head and the angry tremble of your shoulders. “See, sweetheart, if you didn’t go ahead and give in soon, Lucille here was going to get an _intimate_ fucking look at the inside of his skull.” Negan inclines his head slightly in Luke’s direction, and you know there’s nothing empty about the threat.

“You haven’t formally met Lucille yet—” he says, tapping the barrel of the bat on the pavement, your eyes drifting to the pieces of walker gut and gristle stuck between the barbed wire teeth, “—and she’s a _mean_ fucking bitch, so best pray you never fucking do. She’s been my one-and-only since the world went to hell and I have no fucking shame in telling you that she sure as _shit_ wears the pants in this relationship.” Twirling Lucille lightly in one hand, he takes a few steps back into the middle of the street, taking swings like this whole thing is nothing more than batting practice and he’s about to step up to the plate.

“Now I can usually keep her under control,” Negan says between swings, flashing that Cheshire Cat grin your way as you watch him, “but while Lucille is many things—and she is a _bitch_ , no doubt—one thing she has never been is a _patient_ bitch.” He pauses from his practice, holding Lucille out straight in front of him as he stares down her barbed-wire length.

“And she is _always_ fucking thirsty for more. I’d remember that the next time you decide to keep me waiting.

“Speaking fucking of!” He announces abruptly, words coated once more in undisguised joviality. Still holding Lucille straight out in front of him, Negan turns on his heel — and now he’s addressing his audience directly and he’s got you in his crosshairs and all you can do is focus on the rough bite of the sidewalk digging into your knees to keep from losing it.

Because you may not be staring down the end of a gun, and there may not be a bullet cocked and loaded in the chamber, but right now the blood-stained barrel of that bat is looking no less goddamn deadly.

“We are only halfway fucking there, sweetheart.” Negan continues lightly, easing up on his rigid batter’s grip to let Lucille swing down harmlessly to his side. “Now if I remember correctly—and these days I find my memory is working fucking _perfectly_ —there were _two_ fucking things I asked of you.”

And you bite your lip to keep the bile and venom locked behind your teeth — because he’s already got you bowed down in front of him. He’s already proven that he’s won.

But apparently he won’t be satisfied until he’s collected every last goddamn _scrap_ of your dignity, too.

“So, sweetheart, what do you have to say?”

_Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you_ — 

“Well?”

You open your mouth slightly, because at the end of the day, these words aren’t for you. He’s made it oh-so-fucking-clear that he won’t be kept waiting, and with Luke or Marie or Chase’s head on the chopping block, you can swallow your pride and choke out those three simple words, can’t you?

Your obedience is worth the price of their lives, right?

But you can’t bear to see that goddamn smug and self-satisfied grin on his face as you admit your submission, so you lower your head and try to find your voice when—

“Oh, no — no fucking _way_ , sweetheart.” And his hand is underneath your chin again and he’ll fucking force you to keep his gaze if it leaves bruises. “You don’t get off that fucking easy. I wanna see that look on your face—that rage, that fucking _fury_ —as you learn to _accept your fucking place_.”

Your breath is catching in your lungs and your heart is pounding so hard in your chest you feel like your whole goddamn body is shaking. Your world has narrowed to the anger and fear-induced tremble in your limbs and the rough and relentless hold of Negan’s fingers on your skin and the amused, expectant look he wears on his face as he looks down at you. 

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_  — 

And in a voice as unbowed and steady and clear as you’re capable of, you give him his fucking answer.

“Thank you, Negan.”

A broad and genuine smile stretches across his face at your words, and he isn’t even bothering to hide the arrogance in his expression or the surety in his stance. He had you beat from the fucking beginning and anything else that played out afterward was just a desperate goddamn charade on your part to keep up the illusion of carrying on the fight. 

Finally seeming content with your admitted defeat, he lets his hand slide from your face and you can’t help but feel like he just patted you on the head and said “good girl” as a reward for performing a trick on command. Without the pressure of his fingers under your chin, you let your head fall forward, because it’s enough to admit your complacency without having to see the satisfaction at it written all over his face.

From somewhere in the background, you can hear Negan demanding the same of Marie and Luke and Chase, but his words filter vaguely and unregistered through your ears. And you can’t force yourself to listen to their replies, because you don’t know whether you’d find disgust or shame or fear in their voices and _does it even fucking matter anymore_ because either way, you’ve let them down. They looked to you, listened to you, _trusted_ you, and even though you know you didn’t really have a choice, you can’t help but feel like you just fed them to the fucking wolves.

But once he’s gotten the words he wanted, it turns out that Negan isn’t done with you yet. Slowly, he crouches down in front of you, one hand resting lightly on Lucille, eyes once again on the same level as yours.

“Chin up, sweetheart.” Negan says, just loud enough this time for everyone to hear. “We’re just getting fucking _started_.”


	3. Chapter 3

He holds your eyes for a beat longer than he needs to — no goddamn _doubt_ that the prick has your attention at this point. With the same easy grace you’ve come to associate with his movements—that lithe and seemingly effortless expenditure of energy—Negan rises, staring down at you with a considering look as an unnerving grin steals across his face.

“Well, first thing’s fucking first,” he begins, “I’d say it’s about time we all get to know each other a little better, wouldn’t you?” Laying one hand on his chest in some parody of manners—carried over from the rules of conduct belonging to another world—he inclines his head towards you ever-so-slightly.

“As you must certainly fucking know by this point, sweetheart, I’m Negan.” He brings both his arms out wide, Lucille still clasped in his right hand as if he were a king and she his scepter. “And these? These are my Saviors.” The men that have you and your group encircled seem to stand a little straighter at Negan’s introduction, and you can’t help but wonder what the world has come to when the blood on their knives and their skin represents salvation.

“And I can assure you,” Negan continues, “I’ve got a _whole_ lot more where they came from back at the Sanctuary.” He lowers his arms slowly, still giving you that ambiguous smile as the light from the setting sun glints briefly off Lucille’s barbs. “So, sweetheart — fair’s fair.” 

But it _isn’t._ No goddamn part of this is _fair_. Fair would be Wendy still alive and the five of you counting batteries and cans of food in the back of the van as you head home. Fair would be finding the will and the courage to keep struggling through a little longer.

_Fair_ would be you up on your feet instead of brought down low on your knees before a tyrant.

“Ain’t got all fucking day.” Negan says, voice lowering as an edge creeps into his words. “So I _suggest_ you start giving me some fucking answers.”

And you know it’s reckless, and you know it’s stupid, and you _know_ you’re just tempting fate at this point. But you can’t stand that tone in his voice implying that you’re at his beck and call.

You’re done playing tricks for the treat he offers with a closed fist. 

He wants answers? _Fuck_ him.

So you look up at him carefully, letting the lines of your face and the slope of your shoulders and the tension in your muscles sharpen into unmistakable steel. And then you say the only thing you can with any semblance of honest sentiment.

“Eat shit, Negan.”

There’s a silence that follows at your words — a tension hanging in the air like thick and muggy humidity. As you watch Negan process your words, his reaction to your audacity—your _stupidity_ —pulling slowly at his expression, you realize that should be regretting your words. You realize that you never should have let your anger take root in your vocal chords. And you realize that you’ve successfully managed to put everyone you love and care about at risk with your recklessness. 

You wanted to prove a point? Congratulations, asshole — you’ve proved without a fucking _doubt_ just how dense you really are.

But then? Then, there’s no _crush_ of a bat slamming into the fragile construction of your bones, no seething ire, no fury. 

No _—_ instead, Negan throws his head back and _laughs_.

The sound is surprising and chilling, echoing harshly off the walls bordering the street, ricocheting through garbage and body-strewn alleys. After what feels like a solid minute of this full-throated and genuine laughter, it begins to subside, Negan pulling himself back upright as he looks down at you, shaking his head slowly in disbelief.

“You know, I was hoping you had some fucking balls, sweetheart — honest to God, I was.” And then there’s a rush of movement and a blur of black leather and you briefly catch a glimpse of his closed knuckles before they smash into your cheek and send you stumbling down to the pavement, hands desperately thrown up to catch yourself as pain shifts like tectonic plates under your skin.

There’s gravel digging into your palms and blood oozing slowly from the cut he opened up under your eye and it’s been a long time since you’ve been punched in the face and _shit_ you forgot how bad it hurts.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“See, the fact that you’ve got something of a fucking spine?” He’s standing over you know, the blurred edges of his shadow falling over your prostrate figure as you make every effort to pull yourself back upright. “ _That_? That is going to make this whole fucking thing so much more _fun._ ”

Fingers shaking from where they’re splayed out on the pavement, you push yourself up slowly, easing yourself back onto your knees and trying to ignore the impenetrable look on Negan’s face as he watches your efforts. And it _hurts_ but all you can do is hope that the blood slowly leaking down your cheek is the price necessary for retribution  — that he’s collected what you owed for your insubordination.

But while he was certainly amused at your ballsy show of defiance, turns out he is _fucking_ _pissed_ as well. With slow and deliberate strides, Negan resumes his place front-and-center before his small congregation, his words distilled down from their previous genial tone, now laced with undeniable hints of severity.

“That was _cute_ , sweetheart, but enough’s fucking enough. Now I’ve let you play hard-to-get and been a perfect fucking gentleman about it—”

And you must be a glutton for punishment— _honestly_ —because you let out a soft exhale at his words, the slight _hiss_ of air slipping out almost unconsciously from behind your teeth. And no, it’s not quite a laugh…but it also wasn’t _nothing_ either.

A fact Negan most certainly did not appreciate.

“Something fucking _funny_ , sweetheart?” Negan asks, his words suddenly as sharp and pointed and deadly as Lucille’s barbed-wire teeth. “You think I’m fucking _kidding_ here?” He takes a few steps forward, wrapping one hand around the fabric of your jacket and jerking you to your feet as if you weighed no more than a child. With that same assertive and commanding hold on you—one that leaves you feeling like a marionette at the mercy of her puppeteer—he turns you around sharply to face the rest. And now you’re standing next to him, two performers on stage, except this is _his_ fucking show and you’re just some poor sap from the audience doing your goddamn best to keep up.

“Let me ask you this,” Negan says, throwing one arm over your shoulder so you’re pressed flush against his side. “You see any of your friends’ brains decorating the fucking sidewalk here? No? Would you fucking _like to_?” The pressure of his arm around your shoulder increases and you’re left feeling like Atlas trying to hold up the weight of the goddamn world and wondering _how the hell_ he manages to keep his knees from buckling.

“Because I can make that happen — I can make that happen _real_ fucking fast, sweetheart. Keep fucking pushing me—keep trying my generous fucking patience _—_ and this whole scene can get real fucking unpleasant for you in a fucking _hurry_.” Lazily—almost unconcernedly—he brings up his other hand to your cheek, turning your head until you’re staring straight at him, his face barely a few inches from yours.

“Now, you tell me — do I need to start caving in skulls or are you going to _fucking cooperate_?”

From up at the pulpit, you catch a glimpse of Marie and Chase and Luke’s faces for the first time since this all began — since Wendy’s death and the arrival of the Saviors and your slow degradation at Negan’s hands. And even distracted as you are by Negan’s presence infringing so intensely upon your own, you’re transfixed—you’re fucking _ashamed_ —at how _afraid_ they look. 

Because while Negan may be toying with you, they’ve ascertained long ago that if this show requires a price paid in blood, that payment sure as _shit_ won’t be coming from you. 

You’ve been stubborn and you’ve been selfish. While you’ve played out this pointless game of cat-and-mouse with Negan, trying to hold on to your dignity despite him already having crushed it below his boot heel, the people you supposedly care about protecting have been cowering on their knees, defenseless and helpless while they wait to be hit by the aftershocks of your stupidity.

You really want to protect them? Then it’s time to swallow that big fucking pill Negan forced down your throat and _protect them_.

Under his relentless gaze, you let your shoulders sag a little, lowering your head and dropping your gaze, finally admitting your defeat.

“I’ll— _shit_ — I’ll cooperate. I get it, okay? You’ve made your goddamn point.”

But your meekness and your submission won’t be enough this time. “ _No_ — no, I mother-fucking haven’t.” Negan hisses quietly. “Not even fucking _close_.” He stares down at you carefully, as if waiting for any hint or indication of further rebellion, but when you keep your head bowed and your mouth shut, he finally seems satisfied. 

“Well, now that we’re all on the same fucking page here, let’s try this fucking _again_ , shall we!” He looks to you, and you nod slightly in response. And now that the charade is over, he places one hand between your shoulder blades and shoves you unceremoniously to the ground.

You can feel scrapes open up on your palms as you fall roughly back to the pavement. You keep your head down as you silently resume your place, kneeling at his feet.

Obedience is what will keep them alive, so that’s what you’ll be. You’re done testing the length of your leash.

“Now, are you fucks from a larger community?” Negan asks, and you raise your head slowly—hesitantly—to meet his gaze.

“No, it’s just the five—” Your eyes flick back briefly to what remains of Wendy’s still figure. “—the _four_ of us.”

“On the road or are you holed up nearby?”

“Nearby — an office building in the next town over. Ten, maybe fifteen minute drive from here.”

Negan nods contemplatively, considering your submission before letting out a low laugh.

“Now, you tell me, sweetheart, was that _really_ so fucking hard?”

And in a way, falling down at his feet and following his orders was the easiest thing you’ve done since the world ended. Part of you almost enjoys the feeling of giving up control to somebody else — to just succumb instead of fighting this constant, endless struggle.

But you can also feel disgust and shame settling over you like an oily film, and you think it would take scrubbing your skin with Lucille’s barbed wire just to feel clean again.

Negan’s waiting for his answer though, and you know the words he wants to hear.

“It…I… _no_. No, it wasn’t.”

You can only bear to see the look of satisfaction on his face for a moment before you have to lower your head once more.

“So, now we arrive at the almighty fucking question, sweetheart — the _fuck_ happens to you all next?” His voice has taken on that ambiguous tone again, and you don’t know whether you should be readying yourself for a bat to the brain or pleading at his feet for mercy.

“‘Cause the way I see it—and make no fucking mistake, that is the only fucking perspective that matters here—we have two roads ahead of us.” 

Two roads ahead of us? Bullshit. _He_ can do whatever the fuck he wants in this new world — _every_ goddamn road is open to him.

“One _—_ we take all of your shit, right here and now. Weapons, food, supplies, fucking _all of it_. And then you tell us exactly where you’ve been dicking around during the day and we head there and take all that shit, too. Which, as you might fucking imagine, puts you in a less than desirable fucking position.”

Yeah, you’ll take a goddamn pass at door number one. 

“Or, option two — you get to _keep_ your shit, but you pack it all up and get in the car and you come back to the Sanctuary with us. And you know what happens in that scenario, sweetheart? It means that you come and work for me.”

And you know you could stay waiting in that street until _hell_ fucking freezes over, but it wouldn’t make one goddamn ounce of difference.

Negan’s given you your choices, and there is no door number three.


	4. Chapter 4

Fuck. 

Fucking goddamn _fuck_.

You look up at Negan, resentment and frustration coloring your irises as you focus on keeping your breathing as even and measured as you can. And he’s relaxed back into that arrogant and self-assured stance that’s becoming all-too-fucking-familiar, Lucille planted on the ground in front of him, hands resting lightly on her handle, the lines of his muscles shifting easily under the worn leather jacket he wears like armor.

_Fuck_.

“So, sweetheart? What’s it gonna be?”

_Fuck you._

He leans toward you slightly, turning his head so you’re staring at his profile, one hand cupped around his ear. “No answer?”

How are you supposed to choose the lesser of two evils when both roads lead straight to hell? 

Kneeling in front of him, blood congealing slowly over the cut he opened up on your cheek, it takes every ounce of willpower you have to keep from telling him _exactly_ where he can shove his fucking offer. Every part of you—every sinew and muscle and goddamn bead of sweat— _every_ fiber of your being rebels at the idea of living under Negan’s thumb. 

But you stop.

And you take a breath.

And you wait.

You force yourself to pause and to think—to _really_ think—about what it would mean to say no to his proposal.

Because without food or water or weapons, you know you’d be lucky to make it a week without losing someone else. And even if you could find the supplies to stay alive—to continue eking out this meager and pathetic goddamn existence—what kind of life is that? Can you really ask Marie and Chase and Luke to keep suffering just for the sake of your pride?

What if a life at the Sanctuary can actually offer something more? As painful and uncomfortable as it is to consider being under Negan’s rule, don’t you owe it to _them_ to at least weigh all the options in front of you?

So you allow some of the steel to soften from your features, and you take a slow breath, and you try your damnedest to ignore the feeling of the pavement carving bruises into your knees. 

“Working for you…” you begin slowly, the words hesitant and unsure as you lift your head to meet Negan’s eyes, “…what exactly would that mean?”

He meets your stare directly, that smile of his twitching ever so slightly as he watches the cautious and questioning look on your face. “Exactly what it sounds like, sweetheart —  the Sanctuary don’t run on fucking _prayers_. We need people gathering supplies, patrolling and guarding the walls — you get the picture. You earn points for your work and use those points to trade for food or booze or knick-knacks or whatever the fuck it is you want.” Negan gives a lazy shrug, shoulders shifting absently. “The work ain’t easy, but it’s a fair system and everyone gets exactly what they earn.”

Biting your lip as you turn over his words in your mind, you nod slowly. Put like that, it doesn’t exactly sound unreasonable, and there are certainly worse ways to live.

You know that for a fact.

As you think on his words, your eyes rove over the masses of motionless walkers lying dead in the streets.

“Is it safe?”

Negan let out a low chuckle, looking down at you with a mix of skepticism and amusement. “Safe? I think we both know that word don’t mean _shit_ anymore, sweetheart.” He follows the path of your eyes, considering the rotted skin flapping loosely around the exposed bones of the bodies littering the street, and gives another small shrug. 

“But if it’s the dead you’re asking about, none of them have managed to get through the walls yet, and that don’t seem likely to change.” Negan swings Lucille up onto his shoulder and gives a knowing smile to the rest of the Saviors. “And even if they did, my Saviors are more than up to the task of dealing with them — a fact you witnessed first-fucking-hand.”

He’s not wrong there. As much as you might be fearing the silent and lethal men that have you surrounded, a small part of you can’t help but be impressed at the casual and unconcerned way they handled a mass of walkers that would have certainly sealed your fate. 

And living in a place where you wouldn’t have to worry about the dead? Where you might be able to get a full night’s sleep without having to keep one eye open? _Shit —_ that isn’t nothing.

“Now,” Negan begins again, breaking your train of thought, “don’t mistake me — I am in no fucking way implying that no one’s wheezed out their last fucking breath behind our walls. You want order? Keeping the peace? Only way that happens is if everybody—and I sure as _shit_ mean everybody—follows the rules.” His look hardens, that easy and unconcerned expression tempering into something ruthless and severe enough to briefly chill your blood. 

“And trust me, sweetheart, when it comes to the rules — I am by no means the forgiving sort.”

While you could never imagine using ‘trust’ and ‘Negan’ in the same sentence, on that point, you don’t doubt him for a moment.

He looks down at you, as if waiting to see if you’ve anything else to say. You can feel the tension in the air and you know you still need to give him his answer — but more than that, you need a moment to think this through.

This isn’t exactly a decision you can make lightly.

You break his eye contact to look off down the street, shadows from lampposts and abandoned vehicles casting long silhouettes over the road in the dwindling light of the setting sun. It’ll be dark soon, and you consider for a moment what it might be like to fall asleep without worrying about waking to undead eyes and scrabbling fingertips pulling at the seams of your skin.

Take Negan out of the equation for the moment, consider his proposal on the facts alone, and _fuck —_ it is starting to look pretty goddamn tempting.

You compare anxious and sleepless nights on the road to the constant security of walls around you and a roof over your head. You consider searching through ransacked pantries for something to quell the relentless ache of hunger as opposed to the relief and reliability of enough supplies to feed a community. You indulge yourself for a moment and imagine that potential feeling of safety you haven’t known since the world ended.

And when you think about it like _that —_ how are you supposed to say no?

You realize in that moment that you’re no longer solely making this decision for the good of the group — that now, this is just as much about what this opportunity could mean for _you_. The past few years have built calluses on your palms and toned the lines of your muscles and forged you into a goddamn weapon who knows how to kill and to stay alive and _fuck all_ about anything else.

Learning to keep yourself breathing demanded a level of sacrifice you never wanted to make—never would have believed you were capable of. And by necessity, you became so consumed with survival that you’re not even sure you remember what it means to _live_ anymore.

You’ll never get your old life back, and that’s okay — _that’s_ something you came to terms with a long goddamn time ago. But now you see the opportunity to build something new for yourself — not your old life, but a life nonetheless.

Even taking Negan into account, you’re not sure this is something you can afford to say ‘no’ to.

“One more question.”

Negan quirks an eyebrow at you and you can tell he’s starting to get impatient, but if you’re about to sign yourself over to him, you’ll be damned—in _every_ sense of the word—if you’re going to sign that dotted line without reading every piece of the contract first. 

“Well, sweetheart, let’s fucking hear it.”

“Say we get there and we change our minds, say—even with everything you’re offering—that we don’t buy into your rules or your systems or the Sanctuary. Say it’s not for us. Can we leave?”

There’s that imperceptible look in his eyes again as he stares down at you — the kind that leaves you unsure whether he’s about to burst out laughing or bust out Lucille, and you find yourself holding your breath slightly waiting for the outcome.

“Understand me,” he begins, his words deliberate. “I have _no_ fucking interest in keeping people around who don’t want to be there. A deadweight who’s just one more fucking mouth to feed? Fucking _fuck_ that. You want out, sweetheart, I will see you out those fucking gates myself.” 

So—really—is there any reason not to at least give it a chance?

“That what you wanted to hear? Made up your fucking mind yet?”

You chance a quick look behind you at Luke and Marie and Chase. Even in the dimming light, their eyes meet yours readily, expressions patient and waiting earnestly for your answer. As your eyes scan over them, Marie gives you a slight nod, the short strands of her dark hair bobbing slightly at the action. 

It’s subtle, and it’s brief, but that small gesture is enough.

Whatever you decide, they’ll follow you. And given that level of trust, you know what your answer has to be.

With a slight exhale, you turn your head back to face Negan, somehow feeling more sure of yourself than you have since this whole interaction began.

“Alright, Negan.”

There’s a weariness in your tone, your words colored with shades of acceptance and the barest hints of resignation. For better or worse—for whatever the fuck comes next—you’ve made your choice.

God forgive you — you pick up the pen he’s offering and make the deal.

“We choose the Sanctuary. We’ll go back with you.”

All you can do is hope that you don’t live to regret it.


	5. Chapter 5

So now you find yourself _here_ , elbows resting on your knees, jostled and bumped in the back of that big black truck that so recently seemed like a sign of your deliverance. 

And even though a veritable fuckton has happened since it first came careening down the street, you dare to entertain the thought that maybe it still might be.

By now, the sun has long since set, the sky colored in dusty blue shades fading steadily into ribbons of deep navy. What little light remains filters weakly into the back of the truck, leaving you and the Saviors in a state of hazy and ill-defined twilight. On the other side of the truck, Marie and Chase are sitting in similar fashion, eyes wandering idly around the dim interior, their gaze repeatedly and inevitably drawn to the weapons held loosely in the hands of the Saviors traveling with you. You catch their eye from time to time, but the environment isn’t exactly conducive to conversation, so you’re limited to offering each other the occasional reassuring smile.

But there’s an uneasiness in the air that you can feel, and you know you won’t be able to shake that tension until you see the Sanctuary and exactly what you’ve signed up for firsthand.

“Well now that that’s all fucking settled!” Negan had declared back in the street, breezing past your acceptance of his proposal as if your words had been little more than a formality. “How about we get this fucking show on the road? This little holdup has taken considerably fucking longer than I was planning and I still have every intention of getting back to the Sanctuary tonight with enough time to fuck _at least_ one of my wives.” He’d looked up and down the street for a moment, face pensive and considering before he’d turned back to you.

“Said your camp was in the next town over, right?”

“Yeah,” you'd confirmed. “Not too far from here.”

“How’ve you fuckers been getting from Point A to Point B?”

“We’ve got a van parked a couple blocks away. Should still have about a half-tank left.”

Negan had nodded slowly, thinking. Looking away from you and back his men, he’d tilted his head towards the truck, now little more than a faint outline in the dwindling light. 

“Get these three—“ he’d indicated you, Marie, and Chase, “—into the truck.” He’d turned to the Saviors, eyes flicking over three in particular. “Roman, Miles, Davis — have that asshole—“ he indicated Luke, “—show you to their van and get you back to their old hideout. I want whatever shit they’ve got packed up and brought back to the Sanctuary. If it looks clear, get your ass on the road and be back tonight. If not, find somewhere to hole up for a few hours and then be on your fucking way. I want to see all of you bright and early at _no later_ than the crack of fucking dawn, understood?” 

The three men he’d spoken to had given curt nods in response, hauling Luke to his feet by the back of his jacket and giving him an unceremonious shove down the road. Before they’d turned the corner, Luke had looked back at you briefly, and you’d given him a nod and a smile as convincing as you could make it.

“Stay sharp, Luke,” you’d called after them, hating to see your small group fractured further — hating even more that Negan’s orders were your new world and there were no words available to combat his will. “We’ll see you soon, yeah?”

Luke had given you a small, hesitant nod of his own, and then the Saviors closed in around him and you’d watched the uncertainty in the slight slump of his shoulders as they’d disappear down a side street.

A bump in the road jolts you from your reverie, splintering your thoughts but still leaving you with that image of Luke disappearing into the shadows. Whatever happened to him now was distinctly out of your hands and _fuck —_ you _hate_ that feeling.

But you have to believe you’ll see him again.

No, you will see him again. _You will_. 

You can’t lose him too.

After the faint silhouettes of Luke and the Saviors had faded into dusk, you’d felt a hand at your jacket collar and the fabric of your t-shirt cutting into the skin at your neck, the pressure pulling you sharply to your feet. 

“Alright, fuckwits — let’s move out.” Negan had called to the Saviors, Lucille still slung easily over his shoulder as he’d begun heading back towards the truck. With the remaining Saviors around you and Marie and Chase, you’d followed in the footsteps of his long, easy strides, willing the nervous tension in your fingertips to subside as you could feel your heart racing frantically in your chest.

There was no way out but forward, and you’d have been damned before you’d let Negan see any more fear in your eyes.

Two of the Saviors had hopped up on the back, pulling open the doors of the truck with easy, practiced motions as the rest of the men began clambering inside. Under their impatient jostling, Marie and Chase had followed their lead, eyes glancing over to catch yours and hands hovering instinctively near the handles of their sheathed knives as they’d taken not-quite-comfortable seats in the back.

You’d made a move to follow them when you felt a hand on your shoulder halting you in your tracks, the weight of it heavy and commanding and impossible to mistake.

“Plenty of room up in the cab, sweetheart.” Negan had said, voice low as the warmth from his hand seeped through your jacket and your t-shirt and sank into the sensitive nerves of your skin. “Damn sight more comfortable too.” His tone sank into something undeniably more suggestive, as if he could feel the goosebumps that had erupted over your skin at his touch. “’Sides — you get scared, you’re always welcome to sit on my lap.” A soft chuckle followed his words, the sound colored with his amusement at the way you bristled and the slight clench of your jaw.

But—bastard though he was—this wasn’t an order. And maybe he had all the power in this new arrangement, but _fuck him_ if he thought that made you weak.

“Tempting.” You’d responded, your words thick with unimpressed sarcasm and barely disguised disdain. “But I think the back will be _just_ goddamn fine.” And you’d pulled yourself away from his grasp, ignoring the way the Saviors stared at you and the unsure looks of Marie and Chase as you’d climbed up into the truck and taken your seat across from them.

“Your loss, sweetheart.” Negan had called at your retreating figure. But you just kept your head down and your mouth shut and refused to acknowledge where the skin of your shoulder buzzed with the ghost of his touch.

Another bump in the road brings you back to the present and you guess you’ve been driving for about an hour by now, the cold metal surface of the floor chilling you down to your bones and numbing your skin in all the least comfortable places. You tried resting your head against the wall, but the ceaseless jostling and rattling of the vehicle quickly convinced you what a bad fucking idea that was. 

There’s a powerful exhaustion in your limbs and you’d love more than anything just to close your eyes and maybe enjoy the barest opportunity to rest. But stronger than that is the feeling of disappointment and shame clinging thickly to your skin.

Much as you’d love to sleep, you know it’s out of reach until you find some form of atonement first.

“Chase…” You begin slowly, not even really sure what words you want — what words might begin to make this right. “Chase— _hell—_ about Wendy—“

It’s hard to see him clearly in the dim light, but you think you catch the slight shake of his lowered head, his eyes trained resolutely on the floor. 

“You don’t need to…it’s okay.” He says, his words choked slightly where grief has lodged in his throat, and even in the twilight you catch Marie’s hand reaching out and resting reassuringly on his arm. 

“Fuck that. _Yes_ , yes I do.” You press slightly, guilt and bitterness and regret weighing heavy on your shoulders. “I’m sorry, Chase. _Fuck_ , I am so sorry. Sorry that I got us into that goddamn mess, sorry that you didn’t get a proper chance to grieve or say goodbye…” your voice breaks slightly and you have to lower your eyes too. “And sorry that we had to leave her body behind in the street. She deserved… _shit_ …she deserved so much _better_ than that. _You_ deserve more than that…and I fucking let you both down.”

“ _God —_ no, no you didn’t.” You can hear how hard he’s fighting to keep his words even and _hell_ why won’t he just let you bear the weight of this alone?

“What happened…what happened to Wendy was shitty. It was spectacularly _shitty —_ but it is not your fault.” One of his hands reaches out to meet Marie’s, his other darting up briefly to brush something from the corner of his eye. “We both knew how this world worked and had a realistic sense of what our chances were. We knew from the start how things would end. We knew it was never a matter of if, it was just a matter of _when_.” He pauses for a moment, the slow sound of his breathing filling the back of the truck. “But I loved her, and she loved me, and in this fucking shitshow we find ourselves in every goddamn _day,_ what more can you really ask for?

“So do not—do _not_ —try for one moment to put this on yourself. I don’t blame you, and Wendy wouldn’t have either. So for me—and for her—cut yourself some slack, alright?”

There’s a fervent and pleading tone in his words and you give him a slight nod, expressing an affirmation you don’t really mean. Truth is, you want to believe him—more than _anything_ —but you can’t forget the sight of Wendy’s desperate eyes as she’d had pieces of her arm and her neck ripped away by the teeth of the dead. 

You can’t shake the feeling that if you’d just been faster, been smarter, been _better_ , Wendy would still be here.

But your game of regret and ‘what if’ will have to wait because then there’s the sound of that hoarse, back of the throat _hissing_ you’ve come to associate with the dead and the dim rumble of a fence being rolled back as the truck’s speed slows substantially. All of a sudden, the big vehicle comes to a grinding halt as two of the Saviors pull themselves to their feet and push open the back doors, hopping out with weapons held loosely at the ready as the rest of the group—you, Marie, and Chase included—follow. 

Even in the evening light, the first thing your eyes catch is the tall and imposing height of a wall stretching out in an arc on either side of you. You can see a slight gap slowly dwindling as the fence you’ve just driven through is closed, the sight of the barricade proving to be more reassuring than you wold have expected.

“Well, sweetheart,” Negan says, his words turning your attention away from the solid metal structure and pulling your gaze to the compound within the walls. 

“Home sweet fucking home. Welcome to the Sanctuary.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear when I started this that I had every intention of getting to the action of the story a /hell of a lot/ sooner. I swear I didn't /mean/ to spend so much time laying groundwork and that I /definitely/ was not planning on this being a slow burn fic.
> 
> and yet.
> 
> anyway, all to say that this has absolutely (but inadvertently) become a slow burn story and I hope you all have the patience to bear with me a little longer as I feel out exactly how to proceed with the Negan/Reader relationship. I've got some ideas in mind of where I'd like the story to go, and I /think/ they're going to work nicely -- but I may need another chapter or two to get there.
> 
> so apologies for the rambling nature of the story (although, judging by this author's note, that might just be my writing style) and thank you all so, so much for the comments and kudos -- it's much appreciated and I hope you're all as interested/curious to see where the story goes as I am to write it.


	6. Chapter 6

After stepping out of the truck and Negan’s welcome—“ _Home sweet fucking home_ ”—you barely have a few moments to take in your surroundings before you feel a hand between your shoulder blades pushing you in the direction of the compound, feet stumbling forward reflexively towards the looming structure. 

“Neil,” Negan says to one of the Saviors as he ambles up to the massive front door, giving it a few sharp knocks, “show these fuckers around — grand tour or fucking highlight reel, I could not give a shit. Just make sure they know enough to stay out of fucking trouble.” At that, the door swings open slowly, another Savior standing just beyond the threshold who inclines his head slightly at the sight of Negan.

“Fucking make sure they learn the fucking rules,” he continues, sauntering past the man at the door into a bare front room with a scuffed and tile-patterned linoleum floor. “Find them some open beds and sort out their work assignments in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.” The Savior he indicated—Neil—says in response, standing just off to your right with a scratched and bloody crowbar hanging from his belt. 

“And any of you dumb fucking _fucks_ disturb me for the rest of the night,” Negan calls over his shoulder, “while I’m balls fucking deep in one of my wives, I will throw you out a fucking window myself.”

Then he’s gone, his broad silhouette soon fading into the shadows of the Sanctuary, Lucille swinging idly at his side. Not exactly sure what happens now, you find yourself at something of a standstill, eventually propelled into action at the sound of Neil’s clipped, “come on, assholes,” as he leads you into the open front door. 

With Marie and Chase in tow, your shoulders squared, and fucking nowhere else to go, you follow him in.

From that first room, the three of you find yourselves walking behind Neil onto a metal walkway running over the gutted interior space of what you assume must have been a factory of some kind. Down below, repurposed picnic tables run in neat vertical lines over the floor, with maybe a few dozen people either sitting idly, meandering across the space, or sweeping up sparse pieces of refuse. And even though Neil barely spares the scene below a second glance, you find yourself pausing for a moment, feet stumbling in hesitation as you take in the sheer number of living, breathing _people_ in this one room alone.

Because if Negan has managed to find a way to support and sustain a group of this size—not counting all those individuals you hadn’t even seen yet—then _fuck_ , maybe you’ve made the right decision after all.

At your hesitation, you hear Neil call, “try to fucking keep up,” and you remind your feet to keep moving, following him down the walkway over to a door set into the wall that he pulls open to reveal a narrow hallway leading further into the compound.

“That space back there is the mess hall, main rec area, where announcements are made, punishments delivered, etc. etc.” Neil says as you walk, running through the list with an almost bored and unconcerned tone. “The Sanctuary itself has seven floors — most dorms and living spaces are on the third and fourth floors, stores and supplies up on five, medical on six, Negan’s on the seventh.” He pauses for a moment, glancing back at you with a serious expression. “As for the rules? Here’s your first one — fucking _never_ set foot into Negan’s apartment unless he’s called for you explicitly, got it?” His words are harsh and threatening, but even without his warning, you had _no_ fucking intention of getting anywhere _near_ Negan again, so you just nod slightly.

“Understood.” You say, Marie and Chase echoing your sentiment.

“Fucking good. Let’s keep moving.”

Down a labyrinthine series of low metal tunnels, leaking pipes running parallel along the ceiling and the occasional rusting door set into the wall, you follow Neil over to another set of stairs and up to the third floor, honestly only half-listening as he continues to outline the way of life at the Sanctuary—your way of life now, you remind yourself—including listing off various rules as they crop up.

“Dorms are usually four roommates each,” he continues as you make your way down a hall lined with more of the same doors you’d passed before, “with two bunk beds and fuck all else.” Some of the rooms have their doors shut tight, the low sounds of their occupants leaking out into the hall, but some are slightly ajar or swung wide-open, allowing you a brief glance into a myriad of different lives.

Soon, yours will be one of them.

You see men and women sitting cross-legged on the concrete floor playing poker, dealing out cards from a scratched deck and betting everything from cigarettes to shoelaces. You see kids—honest to god _kids_ —tucked into bed underneath patchwork blankets with parents—or guardians, you suppose, since who the _hell_ was lucky enough to have made it through this with their family intact?—reading bedtime stories underneath fluorescent lighting. You see polaroids pinned up with thumbtacks and murals sketched out on the cement in shades of Sharpie and spray paint. 

Here, in this hallway, you see _life —_ spilling over the edges and filling the space in all it’s messy and beautiful and breathing glory. 

You thought you’d found something special in the nights when you and Marie and Luke and Chase and Wendy had clustered around a battery-powered lantern, splitting a king-size Kit Kat and reminiscing, but this? _Fuck —_ you never even knew something like this could still be _possible_.

“Molly?” Neil calls out, stopping at one of the rooms and peering in on its inhabitant — a woman with red hair pulled out of her face in a neat braid, flipping through a magazine on the top bunk. “Hey — you’ve still got an open bunk since Amber left, right?”

“You mean since she decided to fuck off so she could fuck Negan instead? Yeah.” Molly says, glancing over briefly as she idly turns another page in what looks like an old copy of National Geographic. “Who’re they?”

“New recruits picked up on the road today,” Neil says. “These three plus a friend of theirs who should be getting in later.”

“You asking me to play babysitter, Neil?”

“After the way you handled the Millers’ kids — wouldn’t fucking dream of it.” Neil smiles briefly, then looks back at you, mouth drawn in a tired line. “But I need to find places for them to stay and if you’ve got a spare bed, guess who’s getting a new roommate.”

Molly stretches lazily before correcting Neil. “Two, actually.”

“Two?”

“I’ve got two spare beds. Laura decided to move in with Carson — packed up her stuff yesterday,” she says, letting the magazine fall shut on her lap and shifting so her legs are dangling over the edge.

“Laura and Carson?” You catch Neil’s amused expression. “That won’t last.”

“No _shit —_ but also not my fucking problem.” Molly crosses her arms, looking you and Marie over with a careful, considering stare. “Lucky for you, Laura shacking up means they’ve both got somewhere to stay.” She gives Neil a teasing smile. “Also means you owe me one.”

Neil shakes his head, giving a slight snort. “For what? Making my life easier? Being a mildly decent human being?”

“You think that comes free these days?”

He holds up his hands in surrender, “fine, Molly, fine — I owe you one. I’ll be back in the morning to find them their work assignments, alright?”

“Yeah, sure.” Molly says, waving one hand absently as she lays back down on her cot, skimming through the color-photo pages to pick up where she’d left off. “I’ll let you know when I’ve come to collect.”

“Looking forward to it.” With a brusque tilt of his head, Neil gestures for you and Marie to enter the room while Chase remains standing out in the hall. As you take your steps over the threshold, you look back at Chase, concern briefly pulling your brows together. Seeing the hesitation in your movements, Neil rolls his eyes. “Fucking relax, alright? I’ll find a place for him, too, and see if I can get him a room with enough space for the fourth member of your group.” He cocks one eyebrow at you, silently asking if this generosity is enough, but still you find yourself lingering in the doorway.

“Look—“ you begin after a pause.

“No, _listen_ to me for a minute.” Neil says, cutting you off. “I get that what happened on the road made a pretty strong impression—though, _trust me_ when I say you assholes got off easy—but understand that fucking _no one_ here is waiting to throw you to the dead, got it?” He lifts his arms up, gesturing to the hallway and all its occupants. “You honestly think something like this is built and sustained on fear and oppression? Yes, Negan runs a tight fucking ship, but he also _protects_ these people, first and fucking foremost.” Neil locks eyes with you, catching the uncertainty in your stare and holding your gaze. “And now—ignoring whatever the hell happened today—that includes you all, too. You’re _part_ of this place. You’re one of us.” He drops his arms, giving a sigh steeped in exhaustion. “Understand that this isn’t a prison — for these people, it’s a _refuge_. And if you want, it can be the same for you too.

“So fucking _unclench,_ alright? _T_ his place is only as shitty as you make it.” And with that, he walks off down the hallway. When it becomes clear he’s not breaking his stride, Chase gives you an unsure smile and a brief hug before quickly following after him.

“What are you thinking?” You ask Marie, still lingering in the doorway as you watch Chase’s receding figure.

She pauses for a moment, wandering over to the bottom bunk and sitting down slowly on the utilitarian cot. “Lots of things.” She shrugs off her jacket and leans back against the wall, looking over at you. “Mostly that I’m tired, and I’m somehow both grieving _and_ numb, and that I really, _really_ , want this place to work.”

“You think it can?”

“Don’t you?”

You consider her words, allowing yourself to step farther into the dorm, eyes roving over the two empty cots and Marie’s patient, waiting gaze.

“Yeah,” you say finally — honestly. “Yeah, I do.”

“What a touching moment,” Molly says without lifting her eyes from the magazine, “truly.” 

“Glad you could share it with us,” you respond in a deadpan voice of your own, pulling her attention briefly from the pages. Letting the sarcasm slip from your words, you introduce yourself and Marie follows, both of you looking up at Molly with a slight air of expectation. With a slight roll of her eyes and a sigh that seems both exasperated and amused, she shuts the magazine again, climbing down from the bunk to pull on a pair of battered black boots.

“Fucking…fine, fine. Unless you’re goddamn deaf or real fucking oblivious, you must’ve figured I’m Molly.” As she laces her shoes, she inclines her head towards the empty cot, “that’s Dana’s — think she’s showering but she should be back soon.” 

With a brusque and mildly-vexed air, Molly begins walking out of the room, looking over at you and Marie still motionless by the bed. “You coming or what?” 

You exchange a confused glance as Molly waits by the door. “Coming where?”

“Well since Neil saw fit to drop you off here without fucking jack shit,” she went on, “it only seems fair that I get you two set up with the basics.” She raps her nails impatiently on the wall. “At the very least, to find you two pathetic assholes some goddamn blankets.”

“Charitable. We gonna owe you for that?” You ask, tone slightly unsure as Marie pulls herself to her feet.

“Nah, kid.” Molly says, a slight teasing note entering her words, “first one’s free.” And with that, she pushes off from the doorframe, heading off into the hall with you and Marie—curious, if still a little unsure—in tow.

Before you go, you pull the door shut behind you on the room— _your_ room—and for a moment, you allow yourself the barest glimmer of hope.

_This can work_ , you think as you bump shoulders with Marie and follow the swish of Molly’s red braid down the hall. _This can work_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so ideally I'd love to stick as close to canon as possible regarding the world-building, but you just don't see very much of the Sanctuary in the comics, so from here on out, things are inevitably going to be a little more freeform. that said, I'm going to do my best to supply detail in a way that makes sense and is consistent with the logic of the show.
> 
> I also know that this chapter doesn't really feature Negan much (or at all) but I'm more interested in establishing these characters in a fleshed-out world than just rushing through to get to the relationship -- apologies to keep you guys waiting for an update that's essentially filler, but I'm hoping you'll be willing to bear with me.
> 
> I do promise that more tension and slow burn is coming...there's just, uh, none in this chapter (whoops)


	7. Chapter 7

You have trouble sleeping that first night. 

In fairness, you’ve had trouble sleeping ever since the world went to shit, but that was always a different sort of restlessness. These days, survival goddamn _depends_ on your ability to notice the subtle shifts and disturbances in your environment, to stir with your finger on the trigger at the first whisper of trouble. The nights you spent on the road, you could barely afford to let yourself slip below the surface of unconsciousness, couldn’t indulge in the luxury of proper goddamn rest when circumstances demanded you be alert for the sound of nails scratching on a windowpane or the lumbering tread of shuffling feet over bloodstained carpet. Knowing how to pick out the sounds of a walker’s clumsy trail through the underbrush isn’t just a party trick but a goddamn _necessity_.

This, though? _Hell —_ this is a whole different kind of uneasiness. 

Credit to the Sanctuary, it has nothing to do with comfort. The cot they supplied was a damn-sight more agreeable than anything you’ve slept on in months, and though the blanket and pillow Molly bartered for feel like they belong in the coach class of a cheap airline, after having spent winter nights trying to fit under the insufficient fabric of your jacket— _fuck_ —you can honestly call them cozy.

No, it isn’t the feel of the bed or the fabric of the blanket or the curve of the pillow.

It’s the _noise_.

It’s the slight shifts of Marie on the bed below you, the subtle creaks of the metal frame, the soft breathing of Molly and Dana—your fourth and final roommate—on the other side the room. It’s the sound of footsteps treading up and down the hall, the soft _clicks_ of booted heels and the muted _thuds_ of feet clothed in woolen socks. It’s the echoes of whispered conversations that bleed under the gap at the bottom of the door, the faint cry of an infant somewhere further down the corridor. An endless and shifting soundscape of humanity that pulses and breathes and feels so fucking _abnormal_ that it pulls you back into consciousness every time you begin to doze off.

You have to remind yourself where you are every time you open your eyes, your hand instinctively reaching for the knife at your belt. 

You have to take slow, measured breaths every time you mistake someone going to the bathroom for the shuffle of a walker.

You don’t need to plan out six different escape routes from the building, don’t need to keep track of who’s on watch, don’t need to know where your boots are (at the foot of your bed) so you can find and lace them while still half-asleep.

You don’t _need_ to.

And yet.

By the time morning rolls around, you’ve barely gotten a few hours of uneasy rest, exhaustion tugging at your limbs but sleep remaining firmly out of reach as the rest of the Sanctuary begins rising around you. When you hear Dana and Molly stirring on the other side of the room, you figure you can finally give up the pretense of sleep, climbing down from your bed to rouse Marie only to see her similarly awake.

“You get more than a couple hours?” Marie asks as she catches sight of you.

“If that,” you reply, fingers rubbing blearily at the corners of your eyes. “Fuck. _Fuck_.”

“If it helps,” Dana suggests from across the room, her fingers fumbling their way through the sleeves of an oversized fisherman’s sweater, “some mornings they’ve got coffee at breakfast.” She offers both of you an understanding smile as she pulls back her wiry curls into a loose ponytail.

“Yeah, and it tastes like shit.” Molly adds, taking a seat on Dana’s bed as she tightens the laces on her boots.

“But it’s _caffeinated_ shit.”

You answer with a slight smile of your own and a small shake of your head. “I appreciate it, but I’ll be fine. Won’t be the first time I’ll be running on only a few hours of sleep.”

“Just like it won’t be the first time—or the last _—_ that I’ll remind you to take better care of yourself.” Marie says, the barest notes of sternness in her words as she gives you a light and teasing nudge with her elbow. 

“Hey now,” you answer, mock offense in your voice, “I’m alive, aren’t I?” You give her a smile that you hope distracts from the circles running like ragged grooves under your eyes. “That’s more than I can say for most—“

But you stop, your words breaking off suddenly as Wendy’s face tattoos itself to the front of your mind’s eye and _holy fucking hell_ how could you be so thoughtless? Here you are cracking jokes and spending the night in an honest-to-god _bed_ and Wendy’s body is still abandoned somewhere out on the pavement — all that’s left of the vibrant and thoughtful and inspiring woman you’d spent almost a year traveling beside.

“It’s alright.” Marie says, interrupting your self-punishing train of thought with a hand on your arm, as if she can see the shame and guilt that’s tearing through your mind like wildfire. “I know you didn’t mean it like that. I know you weren’t thinking about…” her words trail off slowly, but she continues holding your gaze, as if her stare can keep your self-blame at bay. “There was nothing you could have done, and if you keep holding yourself at fault, you _know_ it’s going to tear you apart.”

And you’re about to say something more, but there’s a look in her eye that stops you—holds you—until you reluctantly accede. “Yeah…yeah, alright.”

Throughout the course of this, Dana and Molly have kept diplomatically silent, proceeding through their morning routines in near-quiet as they implicitly offer you and Marie the space you need for a conversation they have no part in. When you two have reached your tentative agreement and subsided into silence, they begin to restore normalcy—or whatever this new form of it is—with placid and inconsequential small talk about people you’ve yet to meet and events you’ve no knowledge of. Once they’re finished—changed into whatever moderately clean clothes they have left, boots laced, teeth brushed with the remains from a near-empty tube of toothpaste—they head for the door, pausing in the frame as Molly addresses you and Marie.

“We’ve both got early shifts and barely enough time to grab breakfast,” she says, eyeing you both from where she stands in the doorway, “so we’re off, but Neil should be here for both of you soon.” She gives a conceding shrug and exchanges an ambiguous look with Dana. “He’s a little stiff, and—if we’re being honest—kind of an asshole, but he’s decent enough as people go these days.”

“Plus, he’s shown enough new recruits around that he knows how to help you find your footing.” Dana adds, making an effort to add an encouraging tone to her voice. “Listen to him and you should start settling in fine.”

“We’ll see you both later tonight.” Molly says, stepping out into the hallway and waiting for Dana to follow. “Try to stay out of trouble until then, yeah?” She gives you both a wry smile before setting off with Dana down the corridor, boots clicking on the cement as they slip lightly past the other inhabitants in the hall, one hand thrown up over her shoulder in a lazy farewell.

After they turn the corner and disappear from site, you sink down onto Marie’s bed, leaning back against the wall with one knee drawn up to your chest.

“Think Luke’s made it back yet?”

“Hope so.” Marie says, taking a seat on the bed next to you, arms resting on her knees. “Feels strange not having him around.” She laces her fingers together, face pensive. “Felt strange trying to fall asleep without him and Chase and Wendy nearby.”

“Felt goddamn strange trying to sleep on a _bed_.”

“That too.” Marie drums her fingers absently against her leg, eyes glancing past you to the empty doorframe every so often. You can see the impatience written clearly into the relentless motion of her hands and the slight crease of her brow. She’s never been one for sitting still, and neither have you, and you soon find yourself pacing a steady back-and-forth across the cement as you wait for whatever happens next. There’s a tension that persists in the air until eventually you hear a blissfully familiar voice calling out from the doorframe.

“ _Look_ at you lazy assholes, just hanging around. Fuck’s sake, you’d almost think we weren’t smack dab in the middle of an apocalypse.”

“ _Luke_!” You and Marie say in tandem, tones steeped in shades of relief as you see his figure leaning against the jamb. Sliding off the bed, you make your way over to the door, pulling him into a hug and muttering, “thank _fuck_ ,” into his neck as you feel his solid and breathing figure against yours. You slowly pull away until he’s at arm’s length, taking in the slight exhaustion in his expression and stance, the genuine smile spreading broadly across his face. “How are you? When’d you get back?”

“Middle of the night,” Luke answers over Marie’s shoulder as he hugs her in turn. “Other than short on sleep, I’m alright.” His smile widens a little more as his eyes meet yours. “Happy as hell to see you two and Chase again.”

“Feeling’s mutual.” Marie adds, one hand on his shoulder. “How were the Saviors?”

He shrugs noncommittally. “Efficient. Douchebags. About what you’d expect. Oh, but speaking of—“ he pauses for a moment, reaching past the doorframe and returning with the bags you and Marie had left behind at your old camp before your unexpected relocation to the Sanctuary. “Figured you two might want these back. The Saviors took our food and supplies for their stores but said we could hang onto our clothes and personal effects.” You take the familiar battered duffel by the strap and open it slightly, eyes skating over your second pair of jeans and spare socks lying at the bottom, a dog-eared copy of _1984_ poking out from below the denim.

“Hell,” you say softly. Your fingers skim over the edges of the book, feeling the slight crinkle of the photograph you’d tucked between its pages. “Thought I’d lost all this shit for good.”

“Not yet,” Luke says with an understanding smile. 

“Heartwarming.” Neil’s dry voice says, the words coming from where he and Chase are standing just behind Luke out in the hall. “But I’d love to actually have something to eat for breakfast before all that’s left are goddamn scraps _so_ would you fuckers mind cutting this reunion short?”

Luke nods, rubbing the corner of his eye, still bleary from lack of sleep. “Yeah, yeah — sure,” he says to Neil over his shoulder, catching your eye and briefly exchanging a look with you.

With Neil’s words hanging in the hair, you pull on your jacket and slip your toes into your boots, trying to refocus your attention away from the mementos at the bottom of the bag back to the matter at hand. Leaving the duffel on your bunk, you follow Luke and Marie out of the room, pulling the door shut behind you as the three of you slip into the wake of Neil’s lead. Offering murmured greetings to Chase, the five of you begin to make your way down the hall.

“I tried to get them in the same room,” Neil says, indicating Luke and Chase over his shoulder as he retraces the path he took you on the night before, winding through more of those dimly-lit corridors and narrow staircases down to the floors of the factory below. “But no such luck. They’re on the same floor at least — just down the hall from one another.” He glances over his shoulder to meet your gaze. “Best I could do.”

“Thanks for the effort,” you say. “I appreciate it.” And honestly, you do. You know how rare kindness is these days and you recognize Neil made that effort when he didn’t have to. Even if he is looking at you as if you’re little more than an unwanted burden—which, in fairness, you _are_ —and even if he is something of an asshole, you find yourself softening towards him ever-so-slightly at that small act of consideration. He gives a nod at your words, turning away as he continues leading the four of you down to the mess hall below.

“Typically you’ll pay for your meals with points that you earn through your work assignments,” Neil explains as you walk. “But new recruits are usually given an exception for their first day or two here. There’s not much variety in the meals, though — trying to keep this many people fed is enough of a fucking challenge without worrying about the menu, and usually the kitchen crew can only afford to serve up whatever they have that’s still edible.” 

“Can’t be worse than the shit we’ve been getting by on.” You say, remembering all-too-clearly the number of days and nights the four of you had to skip on food altogether, the number of meals where’d you rolled the dice that whatever canned tins you’d managed to dig up weren’t too badly expired. 

As Neil takes you down one last set of steps, the ambient noise of conversation and people milling about increases sharply, and soon he’s pulling open a door on the ground floor of the mess hall. Past the metal frame, you see the empty picnic tables from the night before now packed with members of the Sanctuary, bent over battered dishes and exchanging pleasantries where they’re crowded around the tables. 

“Luke — yeah?” Neil asks, catching Luke’s attention from where his eyes have been wandering in curiosity around the room. “Come with me and help me grab a couple plates. The rest of you, find us a table.” Together, the two of them head off down the aisle between the tables, moving towards the front of the room where you assume the kitchen staff is serving breakfast. Seeing Chase and Marie lost in a similar stupor as they take in the size of the Sanctuary’s population, you give them both a slight nudge with your elbow, the three of you roaming slowly between the benches as you look for an available place to sit. A short while after you’ve found an empty table—and done your best to ignore the curious eyes that watched you the whole way over—Luke and Neil return balancing five plates of food between them, the fare consisting of tinned beans and saltine crackers and little else.

“It’s not strictly a rule,” Neil says as he passes out the plates along with a selection of scratched utensils, “but I’d recommend getting to meals as early as you can. Come too late, you’ll miss the food altogether.” The four of you nod in appreciation at the advice, too hungry and distracted by the meal in front of you to bother with a proper response. As you all make short work of what’s available on your plates, Neil begins outlining your new work assignments.

“As I’m sure you can guess, none of the jobs are particularly glamorous, but they each need doing if this place has any hope of staying afloat.” 

You get it. By now, none of you are strangers to hard work and you have no objections to earning your keep. 

“Besides,” Neil continues, “if you’re exceptionally dissatisfied with your assignment, you can usually put in for a transfer if you’ve proven yourself to be a competent worker. Luke and Marie,” Neil says, inclining his head slightly towards both of them, “you’re both on wall fortification and construction. Mostly consists of heavy lifting and there’s some time spent on the outside gathering supplies, but they don’t lose people too often, and the man who runs the crew is a fair boss.” 

Luke and Marie exchange a brief look, nodding their assent. All things considered, there are worse places they could be.

“Chase,” Neil goes on, turning his head to the next member of your group, “you’ll be helping in the gardens. Negan wants this place to eventually be as agriculturally self-sufficient as possible, which means there is a shitton of tilling and planting to be done. Lots of long hours and they start early, but you’ll be inside the walls at all times.”

So far, so good — in fact, better than you’d expected. As for yourself, you’re hoping to be placed on guard detail or supply runs — some place where you’ll be useful and won’t lose those carefully honed abilities to survive on the outside.

“Last,” Neil says, finally turning his attention to you. “You’ll be working maintenance.”

Wait — _what_.

“Hang on, _maintenance_?” You say, confusion knitting your brows together. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, the Sanctuary is a big place and there’s a fair amount of upkeep—“

“No—dammit, _really_?—I fucking _know_ what _maintenance is_.” You say between slightly gritted teeth. “That’s not what I meant.” You pause for a moment, taking a slow breath. “What I was trying to say…look, it just seems like I could be more valuable elsewhere — like there are ways I could be contributing more to the compound.”

“She’s right.” Marie adds, lowering her fork as she looks up at Neil. “There’s a reason why we all followed her out on the road. Sticking her in maintenance would be a waste.”

“Yes,” Neil says carefully, looking at you slowly with an expression both sympathetic and condescending, “but with you…we both know your assignment isn’t _really_ about what you’re capable of or where you’d be most valuable, right?” He holds your gaze carefully, cocking one eyebrow. “You do understand that, don’t you?”

But you don’t, at first. And it takes a minute of holding his level expression before the truth finally sinks in.

“Oh.”

“There it is.”

“ _Oh_.”

Luke is looking between the two of you with his own puzzled expression. “Wait—no, I don’t understand.” He turns to you, perplexed. “Why isn’t this about your skills or talents? How the fuck does that make any sense?”

You break away from Neil’s gaze to meet Luke’s, smiling somewhat ruefully at the position you’ve put yourself in. “It’s about what happened yesterday on the road — the fact that I…wasn’t quite as obedient or deferential as I was expected to be.”

“That’s a mild way of putting it.” Neil mutters from across the table. Ignoring the interruption, you continue on.

“So now, this is about seeing if I’m capable of falling in line. It’s a test to see if I’m actually able to follow orders or if I’m just a troublemaker who would do more harm than good here.” You look up again, catching Neil’s eye. “Right?”

He nods. “That about sums it up. But don’t kid yourself, _sweetheart_ , this is meant to serve as a punishment, too.” You tense slightly when you hear the affectation, but there’s a not unkind look on Neil’s face, and you understand that he isn’t using the word to insult or demean you, but to remind you who his orders are coming from.

As if there’s a goddamn chance you could forget.

Breakfast comes to a close as the five of you scrape the last crumbs from your plates, following Neil’s lead and dropping them off in bins at the front of the hall to be cleaned. In step behind him, he continues listing off various tips for the different work assignments as he begins guiding the four of you to your new stations, first leaving Marie and Luke with the man who runs construction, then Chase with the woman responsible for the gardens. Finally, he takes you back inside, leading you down a series of rickety steps to the basement levels of the factory where the maintenance crew meets for their daily shift assignments.

“Hang on a minute,” Neil says, pausing in one of the hallways and stopping you in your tracks. “There’s a few more things I want to say first.” He rubs the back of his neck absently, looking off down the corridor as if to confirm that you two are alone.

“Look, you seem like a decent-enough person,” he begins slowly, “and I want to give you a heads-up about what you’re walking into. Maintenance is a _shitty_ fucking gig, and the asshole who runs it should have been reassigned to one of the outposts a _long_ fucking time ago.”

“Hell, no need to sugarcoat it for me.”

Neil skates past your interruption, his lips pressed together in a thin line. “It’s a fucking difficult and thankless job — basically the bottom of the heap. And I want you to know that I am sorry you’re stuck here, and that this was not my call.”

“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” you say, “honestly. I know this wasn’t your decision, and I know I brought this on myself, but it’s alright — I’ve been handling shit much worse than this for the past three years.” Your eyes skate over the dimly lit hall bordered by rusting metal pipes. “Besides,” you say, trying to inject some levity into your words, “didn’t you say we could always put in a transfer for our work assignment?”

“I did,” Neil says, giving you a rueful smile, “but that privilege is typically reserved for people who _haven’t_ told Negan to ‘eat shit’.”

Ah, damn. You’d forgotten you’d said that.

“Look,” Neil continues on, “this is just about Negan proving his point. And believe me, you should be thankful that you’re the only one he’s deciding to punish. The rest of your friends landed good assignments, and he is rarely this generous.”

That, you don’t doubt for a moment.

“It’ll be shitty for a little while, but if you keep your head down and follow orders,” Neil gives a slight shrug, “he’ll eventually ease up. He wants to see if you’ve learned your lesson, so for the _love of fucking god_ , please show him that you have. Stay out of trouble, stay out of his way, and you should be fine.”

You nod in understanding at Neil’s words. Even without his warning, you had no intention of ever crossing paths with Negan again, and figure that, even with your less-than-ideal work assignment, it should be easy to keep your head down until he’s forgotten about you.

But life—as you really should have learned by now—had _no_ fucking intention of letting you off that easy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh boy - okay first of all, apologies for the delay in updating. the first half of this chapter practically wrote itself in a day or two and then the second half /fucking refused/ to cooperate for /weeks/. plus, I started feeling anxious that the plot was becoming too self-indulgent and losing appeal, and those nerves coupled with an intense bout of writer's block made this one hell of a chapter to pull together.
> 
> until eventually I decided - fuck it, right? I'm enjoying writing the damn thing and I'm excited about my outline for the next few chapters so fuck it if it's self-indulgent, I'm not going to worry and just keep going and powered through the end of this at like 2am last night (or...this morning?).
> 
> anyway, hopefully now that I've broken through that last dam, the next chapters will start flowing a bit more easily, but I'm wary of making any promises. I'm also not going to beg for comments or anything, but, you know, I do like hearing from you all every so often.
> 
> alright, that's enough rambling on my part. enjoy the update and enormous thanks for reading and all that jazz. next chapter - Negan is most certainly returning.


	8. Chapter 8

Neil is right — maintenance _is_ a shitty fucking gig.

By now, you’ve been living at the Sanctuary for almost two weeks, adjusting to its rhythms and patterns just as you’ve learned to adapt to every new curveball this world has thrown your way. Your days start early, rising in tandem with Marie to the shrill beeping of a battery-powered alarm clock on loan from Molly.

“Fucking trust me,” she’d said as she’d offered it to you both, “you’re sleeping in a room with no windows and no sense of the time of day. Even with whatever abnormal and shitty sleep schedule you’ve been keeping, you can’t always trust your internal clock on this one. And I can assure you, last thing you want is to turn up late for your shift or have to skip breakfast. So do us both a favor: stop playing the saint and just _take it_.”

After pulling yourself out of bed and digging through your clothes for something passably clean, you follow Marie to the communal bathroom down the hall, splitting the dregs of a tube of toothpaste and washing the sleep from your eyes before meeting up with Chase and Luke to walk down to breakfast. Neil had continued joining you for meals during those first few days, but eventually left the four of you to yourselves once he’d seemed satisfied that you all were settling in as well as could be expected. You still see him around the Sanctuary occasionally, the two of you exchanging nods or brief words before going about your business.

Once your plates are scraped clean and left in the bins at the front of the room, the four of you part ways for your work assignments — Luke and Marie heading out to the construction crew at the walls, Chase wandering out behind the compound to the steadily expanding gardens, and you down to the basement and the maintenance headquarters.

And if you’ve learned anything from your first days at the Sanctuary, you learned that when it came to maintenance, Neil hadn’t exaggerated a _single goddamn word_.

You’re not quite sure which part you hate the most, because honestly, it’s a tough call. First, there’s Donnie — the lazy fuck of an overseer who’s only job seems to be handing out the daily assignments before reclining behind a desk and making his way through a plus-sized bag of M &Ms—fuck knows where he gets them. His eyes always wander over you when he gets to your assignment, and you have to dig your nails into your palms to fight the itch to clock him between his narrow eyes. 

Then there are your fellow workers — all of them belonging unequivocally to the bottom rank of the Sanctuary’s social hierarchy. You’re surrounded by survivors too slow, or too weak, or too senseless to contribute anywhere else. You stand shoulder to shoulder with useless jackasses and petty criminals working here as punishment for crimes because—despite whatever minor transgressions they’ve committed—locking them away would be a waste of valuable resources. You work side by side with people who seem to have turned laziness and apathy into an art form, whose only talent seems to be inventing excuses and shifting the blame onto the shoulders of others. You don’t say much to them — in fact, during work hours, you don’t say much to anyone at all. You quickly learned there was no point in wasting your words on people who weren’t interested in what you had to say — people who only saw you as someone to be manipulated or taken advantage of.

And, of course, there’s the work itself. Despite Neil’s initial warnings that the job would be difficult and thankless, you’d still assumed it’d be nothing compared to what you’d gone through so far. After all, you’d had to scrub walker viscera from your skin and clothes more times than you could remember — so really, how bad could simple maintenance work be?

Bad, as it turned out. Pretty fucking bad.

As it turns out, ‘maintenance’ is little more than a friendly umbrella term for every shitty and unpleasant task around the Sanctuary that no one else wants to perform. From scouring the communal bathrooms to cleaning walker guts from the bumper and tire treads of patrol cars to cutting down the rat population with little more than an old shovel, you’ve developed an unrelenting ache in your back and your shoulders from the amount of time you’ve spent hunched over on the floor. And you want out— _god_ , do you want to be done with this—so you work hard, because you know that’s the only way any supervisor will even _think_ about approving a transfer request. But since your work ethic doesn’t exactly remain a secret, it also means that it doesn’t take long for Donnie to give you all the worst assignments and overload your schedule because he knows you’ll get the job done. And any partner you get stuck with is guaranteed to slack off in the corner because a) they can always take credit for your work later and b) even if you do say something, no one gives a single solitary _shit_ about such a minor injustice.

It’s bullshit and it’s defeating and you are so, so _tired —_ but you keep going, because you refuse to let this beat you.

Still, the hours are goddamn long and the end of every shitty assignment just means Donnie has an excuse to give you another one. It’s getting harder to pull yourself out of bed in the morning and you’ve almost fallen asleep at the dinner table on more than one occasion. You avoid talking about it with Marie or Chase or Luke because you know you have no one to blame but yourself, and besides, they can see the frustration and defeat written all over your face. And what could they say, anyway? What would be the solution? Give up? Leave the Sanctuary? Return to a life on the road of scavenging stale crackers from ransacked pantries and wondering when your luck will finally run out?

They’re happy, and they’re safe, and that’s what matters. For them, you can tough it out. For them, this is worth it.

Besides, you can’t be stuck here forever, right?

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself. But there are days when that becomes harder and harder to remember.

Today, at least, starts off fairly straightforward, Donnie sending you to one of the side hallways off the main factory floor to scrub a bloodstain off the floor before it permanently stains the cement.

“The hell happened?” You’d asked when he’d first given you the assignment. 

“I look like I give a shit? Just fucking get to it.”

So here you are, on your knees with a bucket of industrial strength cleaner beside you, arms starting to ache from where they’ve been moving the scrub brush back and forth across the floor, seemingly to no effect. 

_Fuck this._

But you persist, because even considering how much you _hate it,_ this is your job and that’s who you are. So—despite how goddamn _pointless_ this whole fucking endeavor feels—you dip the brush back in the bucket and continued scrubbing, barely registering the sharp click of boot heels steadily making their way down the hallway towards you.

At first, you assume it’s just another member of the Sanctuary. As you’d quickly learned that fucking _no one_ gave a shit about the maintenance staff, you make sure that you and the bucket are out of the way so—whoever it is—can continue on unimpeded.

To your slight surprise, though, the boots stop in front of you, their toes coming to a halt just shy of the bloodstain while their owner remains silent. Not sure who else could be looking for you, you figure it must be Donnie, almost certainly coming to give you shit or add to your workload. In response to the continuing silence, you give a slight exhale, doing your best to keep the frustration and irritation you're feeling out of your tone and locked behind your teeth.

“Look, Donnie, I’ve been at this for an hour and I’m _still_ barely making headway. So if you’ve something else for me to do, it’s going to have to goddamn wait.”

A pause.

“I look anything like that fat fucking fuck to you, sweetheart?”

At the sound of that voice, you freeze, brain temporarily short-circuiting as your muscles tense involuntarily. Your whole body has come to a standstill, limbs statuesque in shock with the exception of your heart beating jackrabbit fast in your chest. Slowly—goddamn praying you’re mistaken, fucking _pleading_ those words came from _anybody_ else—you lift your head, meeting the questioning, amused look in Negan’s eyes as steadily as you can manage.

_Well, fuck._

You’ve seen him occasionally since your arrival at the Sanctuary—the place is big, but not _that_ big—but only ever at a distance — at the other end of the mess hall or driving back through the gates or walking across the catwalk over the factory floor. Through a combination of coincidence and your own efforts, you’d been steadfastly following Neil’s advice to stay out of his way. And up until now, it had been goddamn _working_ , too.

Unfortunately, in the advice he’d given you, Neil hadn’t mentioned jack shit about what to do if Negan sought you out himself.

Which leaves you at something of a loss for words and wishing you could be fucking _anywhere_ but here.

“Should I take that silence as a yes?” Negan asks, raising one eyebrow and smiling slightly at your evident discomfort with the situation. “You telling me I’m fucking indistinguishable from a balding jackass with fucking pit stains? That right, sweetheart?”

“That’s not…” you begin hesitantly, making an effort to answer in a tone as deferential sounding as you can manage. “I mean, no. No.” 

There’s a pause as he continues looking down at you, eyebrows still raised as he considers your impassive and carefully composed expression, an almost expectant look in his eyes. For a moment, you wonder if he’s waiting for you to call him ‘sir’, but— _hell_ —even you have your limits.

After another beat, his expression relaxes, the hint of his smile spreading across his face into a full-fledged grin as he flashes those bright white teeth down at you. “No? Well, shit — color me fucking relieved. Here I was starting to feel all self-conscious.”

You duck your head at that, hiding the slightly amused quirk of your lips his words have involuntarily elicited from the still lines of your face. There’s something almost disarming in the easy smile he’s giving you, in the relaxed slope of his shoulders. It’s unexpected and goddamn _unsettling_ , and you need to train your eyes on the bloodstain on the floor for a moment to remember how this dynamic is supposed to feel — to remember that he’s the reason you go to bed with bruises on your knees and clothes smelling like cleaning solution. 

Once you’ve taken a breath and rearranged your expression into something neutral and nonplussed, you lift your head to meet his gaze.

“Listen,” you begin, determinedly ignoring the impenetrable, teasing look on his face, “I meant it, earlier, when I said I was busy. So, unless there’s something you need from me—“

“There is, as a matter of fact.”

_Swell_.

“That so?” 

It’s an effort to keep your tone as casual and unconcerned as his, to ignore the flickers of anxiety and uncertainty sparking in the pit of your stomach.

“Indeed it is, sweetheart. See, typically I like to check in with Neil when it comes to new recruits — find out how they’re settling in, how well they’re adjusting, if I should expect any trouble from them.” He shifts slightly, folding his arms across his chest, something in his expression sharpening as it loses a little of its levity. “But you? Figured you and I should chat directly. You know — have a proper fucking face-to-face.”

_Shit. Fuck._

“You think I’m going to be trouble?”

“Not fucking sure yet, sweetheart. That’s what I’m here to find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so a) apologies for the delay in posting. I've had this chapter and the next mostly written for days now, but actually completing it turned out to be (for some reason) really goddamn elusive
> 
> b) initially I'd planned on this scene with Negan all taking place in one chapter, but as it turns out, these two assholes have /a lot/ to say to each other, so in the interest of keeping chapters roughly the same length, I decided to split this up
> 
> c) so while that means that this chapter is ending on a cliffhanger, it also means that the next chapter is mostly done and will hopefully be up relatively soon (ish)
> 
> d) as always, hope you enjoy the direction the story is going in and the unfolding relationship
> 
> and last e) thank you all so much for the comments/kudos -- honestly. it's incredible reassuring to know that there are people out there enjoying this story and I'm not totally wasting my time. thanks again!


	9. Chapter 9

_He wants to see if you’ve learned your lesson,_ you hear Neil’s voice play back in your head, _so for the love of fucking god, please show him that you have._

“Alright,” you begin slowly, keeping your tone quiet and gaze steady, “so what happens now?”

Negan gives a slight shrug, looking down at you with an unconcerned expression that doesn’t quite line up with the steel-sharp glint in his eyes. “Now, we have a chat. Just you and me. I’ll ask you some questions and you’ll give me some straight fucking answers and by the end of it, I’ll have a better sense of where we stand.”

“That’s it?” You ask, the words slipping out before you have a chance to think better about questioning him.

In response to the surprised look on your face, he shakes his head slightly, answering your confusion with an amused expression of his own. “What — you expecting a fucking duel or some shit? Yes, sweetheart, that’s it. Think you can manage?”

Honestly? Who the _fuck_ knows.

But you will manage, because there are exactly zero other choices at this point. So you take a breath, trying to slow the rapid beating of your heart and relax your tense and anxious nerves. Whatever test or challenge he’s waiting to throw your way, you can handle this. Focus. Stay calm. You can do this.

Or so you tell yourself, because you don’t want to imagine what might happen if you should fail.

At that moment, it occurs to you that you’re still on the ground from where you’d been scouring at the stain, knees tucked below you and scrub brush in hand. You know it’sa convention at the Sanctuary for people to kneel down when Negan walks by or addresses them, but you figure you’ve been on the floor long enough and you can’t quite stomach the idea of continuing this conversation while you’re knelt down like an acolyte at the base of an idol. So you drop the scrub brush back in the bucket, hearing the soapy water slosh against the sides as you pull yourself up, feeling the slight pain of pins and needles pricking their way through the aching lines of your muscles.

Because whatever happens next, it’s a little goddamn difficult to act like you’ve got any strength or self-assurance while you’re negotiating from a position at his feet. His eyes on you, your movements careful and deliberate, you draw yourself up to your admittedly unimpressive height, meeting his gaze squarely as you raise one eyebrow slightly in a mirror image of his own.

“Alright then — fire away. What do you want to know?”

You know Neil would be rolling his eyes clean out of his goddamn skull if he could see the straight rail of your spine, if he could hear that tempered edge in your tone. You know the wise option would be to play this safe. You know you should keep your head down as much as you can and give Negan the answers he wants to hear and count every lucky star in the sky that this meeting ends quickly.

And yet.

The best you can explain it—if you were going to try and explain it at all—would be that Negan’s got a way of affecting you that you can’t quite pin down — a way of stirring the blood in your veins and setting you on edge like crackling static charge. Something about standing in front of him when you’re locked in his crosshairs lends you a blend of courage and recklessness that guarantees trouble.

Your instinct is to fight fire with an inferno of your own. Even with all the horror stories you’ve heard about him and the kind of pain he seems to relish in causing, you _want_ to rise to his challenge. Learning to survive in this walker-infested world meant learning when to stand up and fight — to suppress your fears for the sake of whatever obstacle needed to be overcome. After an endless series of painful and bloody lessons, you lost the instinct to back down at the first sign of trouble.

But surviving also meant recognizing when you needed to run. You know you can’t win every fight, and you know better than to try. Much as you might want to challenge the cocky smile behind his salt and pepper beard, you remind yourself of the punishment you’ve already endured from one confrontation.

So lose the hero complex and get smart, asshole. If you can get through this situation without making things worse for yourself, you’ll consider that a win.

“Let’s start with the easy shit first, shall we?” Negan says, breaking the silence and bringing you out of your thoughts back to the matter at hand. “Two weeks in, how are you finding the Sanctuary so far? Think it’s worthy of the name? Meeting or exceeding your expectations?”

Absently, you bite the inside of your cheek, looking down at your shoes while trying to decide exactly how to answer him.

“Thoughts?” Negan asks, the faintest hints of impatience in his tone. “Or is it just that incredible you’ve been stunned fucking speechless?”

“It’s…not what I expected.” You finally respond, meeting his gaze squarely and catching the brief hint of confusion that crosses his face.

“Better or worse?” There’s a note of genuine curiosity in his voice, and though you instinctively rebel against the idea of giving him a compliment, you can’t find it in yourself to lie.

“Better.” You concede, flicking your eyes away to ignore that grin stealing steadily across his face.

“Is it now?” For a moment, your eyes glance over and catch his, and it’s an effort to maintain your composure at the sight of his light, infectious smile. “Well no need to be so abrupt, sweetheart — tell me more.”

Sure, he’s being an ass — but by now, you’ve accepted that as part of his character. Underneath his outward demeanor, though, there’s the faintest hint of interest written into the lines of his face that suggests he’s curious as to what you have to say. With absolutely no desire to get back to scrubbing blood from the floor anytime soon, you don’t see much harm in engaging further.

“The compound is larger than I expected, and there are more people than I thought there would be — more people still alive than I’ve seen together in a long goddamn time.” Your tuck your hands in your pockets to keep them from fidgeting as you look up to meet his eyes. “And that isn’t nothing.” 

You pause for a moment, waiting to see if he’s going to interrupt, betting that there must be some biting comment hiding just behind his white teeth. But instead, he stays silent. You can’t tell if he’s waiting for you to finish or if he just likes catching you off guard—knowing him, it’s probably the latter—but either way, you decide to carry on.

“I expected more soldiers and fewer civilians — something closer to a military camp, I guess. But that’s not what this is, fucking _at all._ I know you’ve got your outposts, and I’m sure a well-stocked armory, but the bulk of the people here aren’t part of an army—aren’t fighters ready to go to war for you—they’re just _people_. And you’ve found a way to keep them safe and to keep them fed and to give them a place where they can start to build a life.” You duck your head, because it’s not lost on either of you what a rarity that is. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it’s perfect—far fucking from it—but it’s like nothing I’ve seen on the road so far. And that isn’t nothing, either.

“So,” you trail off, not quite sure what comes next, “there you have it. Better than I expected.”

When you look back at Negan, you see he’s still wearing that easy grin, but something’s changed slightly in his expression. There’s a newfound curiosity in his gaze and he’s watching you with the sort of careful intensity that makes it pretty goddamn difficult to keep your composure.

“Fucking careful, sweetheart,” he says after a beat, tone still teasing despite how closely he’s observing you, “some of that almost sounded close to a compliment.”

“Well if you’d prefer insults, I’ve got plenty of those.” You shoot back without thinking — too distracted by the way he’s considering you to respond more tactfully.

“Of that, I’m fucking sure.” Negan folds his arms across his chest, and you can see the flex of his muscles underneath the black leather of his jacket. He gives you another bright white smile—the kind that leaves you at a loss for whatever he might be hiding behind that toothy grin—tilting his head as he looks you over. “Let’s fucking hear ‘em.”

“Excuse me?”

“You say this place is far from perfect, and I agree. But I want to hear your take on it. Where do you see its faults?”

You let out a slight laugh, shaking your head in disbelief. “This seems like an invitation to get my head caved in.”

“Tell me this — you fucking see Lucille anywhere? Or any of my men? I got a fucking gun to your head, sweetheart? Well, do I?”

“Well no, but—“

“Fucking _exactly —_ no, I do not. So enough tiptoeing around and let’s hear it.” At your continued and uneasy silence, Negan gives an irritated exhale, shaking his head impatiently. “Not trying to entrap you and I’m not looking for an excuse to kill you — but I have also fucking never been mistaken for a patient man, sweetheart. Quit being so fucking paranoid and _talk_.”

He isn’t exactly leaving you any other options at this point, so you do.

“I guess the first thing that comes to mind is the structure of this place — the rules.” You see Negan about to object and keep going before he has a chance to interrupt. “You were the one who asked for my opinion, remember? If you don’t want to hear it, that’s goddamn fine by me, but if you’re going to be so fucking insistent that I talk, _at least_ give me a chance to explain.” You pause to see what effect your words have had, wondering if you’ve overstepped your bounds. Negan looks back at you carefully, mouth drawn, before eventually inclining his head slightly in a silent cue for you to carry on.

“Okay? Great. Listen, I get that rules are necessary and I get that a compound like this needs some order to stay afloat. Trust me, I do — I’ve seen firsthand how easily a lack of leadership and disarray can lead to disaster. It’s really rare to build something like this and it’s so _easy_ for it to fall apart. I get all that, too.” You pause, trying to marshal the right words. “You’re trying to build something here, right? Not just a temporary shelter, but the start of something _more_. Because living can’t just be about surviving. Maybe that’s how it was at first—when the world went to shit and we were all left trying to figure out what came next—but that’s not where we’re at anymore.” You look at him, trying to read his reaction to your words. “I don’t think I’m wrong, am I? People need something to live for — the promise or hope or potential of a future that’s worth staying alive and fighting for, right?”

“Wouldn’t argue with that so far.”

“So let’s say that’s what you’re doing here — laying the foundation and planting the seeds for a future. Whether you want to call it rebuilding civilization or starting from scratch, the idea is still the same. It’s about taking back the world from the dead and establishing something lasting for the living.

“And that’s why I think that the current structure is…flawed. Because however you want to describe it, in essence, the Sanctuary is run like a dictatorship. I get that’s what it needed for it to come together at all, and I get that you need to keep control over the Saviors and maintain order for it to stay afloat, but what new society can grow in that kind of environment? Whether you’re looking at history or even goddamn fiction, it seems like that sort of absolute rule has always been the birth of messy revolutions and rebellions where everyone lands in the shit. 

“Understand me,” you hasten to add, hearing how seditious and treasonous your words must sound, “I’m not trying to imply that the people here are planning a coup or getting ready to stage a revolt. It just seems—to my one, singular perspective—that if the Sanctuary is going to become something enduring, at least some power needs to be returned to its people. Unless you’re not really thinking about sustainability or the future, in which case, I’m sure your current system will continue to keep things perfectly operational. But—and maybe I’m really goddamn off on this one—you don’t strike me as the kind of person who’s made it this far by only considering short-term solutions.”

As soon as the last words are out and hanging in the air, it occurs to you that you almost certainly should have stopped talking a hell of a lot sooner than you did. Not only have you just criticized Negan’s operation—to his _face_ , no less—but you’ve also implied he could soon have a rebellion on his hands and called him a dictator to boot.

_Fucking way to go, asshole. Brilliant move._

As you start to realize just how much you’ve said, how far you’ve overstepped, you can feel the first shivers of panic starting to travel through your nerves and chill your spine. You’re waiting for a fist to collide with your cheek or a steel-toed boot to the stomach because you can’t imagine that this situation ends any other way. Despite Negan’s assurances to the contrary, you can’t help but feel like he’s taken every word you’ve spoken and wrapped them like barbs around Lucille’s wooden frame.

Even if he wasn’t looking for an excuse to hurt you before, you’ve sure as shit handed him one now.

But he doesn’t say anything yet — doesn’t make a move to beat you into oblivion or feed you to the walkers outside the wall or any one of the other innumerable scenarios running through your head. No — instead, he just continues looking down at you, holding your gaze with the sort of careful consideration and deliberate intensity that you so goddamn _desperately_ want to look away from, but can’t.

You have no idea what might be running through his head right now, but you can’t imagine that silence signals anything good.

Then, just as you’re getting ready to start apologizing profusely or sprint off down the hall, Negan tilts his head back and lets out a _laugh —_ the kind of rough and full-throated sound that sends shivers racing over your skin in a way the hiss of a walker never has. The sound slowly tapers off, Negan looking at you with unmitigated humor still pulling at his smile as he shakes his head slightly at your apparent naivety.

“So, what? You suggesting I turn this place into a democracy?”

You have to pause for a moment to process his words. It takes you a beat to recognize that he’s choosing to engage with his words instead of his fists.

“No,” you begin, hesitant and unsure, still trying to sort out his unexpectedly nonviolent reaction. “At least, not immediately. But in time—once things have settled down a little more and this place starts becoming self-sustainable—why not? If the people have managed to survive an endless shitshow just to get to this point, isn’t it only fair they get some say in what happens to them next?”

“Democracies ain’t exactly known for being very fucking decisive, sweetheart,” Negan muses, running one hand over his beard, “and the literal fucking apocalypse doesn’t really offer the luxury of debates. ‘Sides — you ever notice how people can be _really_ fucking stupid?”

You let out a humorless laugh of your own. “What am I supposed to take from that? You’re the only one with any answers? Out of the remaining survivors, _you’re_ the only one who knows what to do?” You can’t help but shake your head slightly at his words. “Shit — you’ll have to forgive me if I don’t entirely buy that.”

“Seems to have worked so far.” He responds, a slight edge in his voice that you’re not quite sure how to interpret.

“You’re honestly telling me you don’t believe there’s room for improvement?”

“Like I said before, sweetheart — I don’t deny this place has its faults. It fucking does not mean I’m getting ready to hand over the keys to this place to a group of incompetent fuckwits.”

It’s an effort not to roll your eyes at his dismissive words. You settle for biting the inside of your cheek just shy of drawing blood.

“You don’t think that’s an unfair assessment?” You respond, the words spilling out before you can overthink your actions. “You don’t think you might be underestimating these people?”

“You don’t think you give them too much fucking credit?” Negan asks, eyebrows slightly raised. “Seriously, sweetheart — _that’s_ your solution? A genuine fucking faith in the _democratic system_?” He shakes his head, the gesture almost unbearably condescending. “How you’ve managed to maintain such fucking faith in people and not gotten yourself killed is an absolute fucking mystery.”

“Then I guess that’s your takeaway from all of this, isn’t it?” You say, tone laced with hints of bitterness. “I’m just another incompetent fuckwit — an example of how ‘really fucking stupid’ people can be.”

You don’t expect the look Negan gives you — impatience and exasperation and amusement all somehow rolled into one.

“Fuck’s sake, sweetheart.” He says, letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Look, you’re naive and idealistic to a fucking _fault —_ but you are also clearly very fucking far from stupid.”

His words catch you off guard, and it must show on your face for Negan to roll his eyes at you the way that he does. 

“Oh, don’t look so fucking surprised. You know you’re smart — you fucking should not be so surprised that I see it, too.” He shakes his head before suddenly leveling you with a sharp and unrelenting stare. “But so we’re fucking clear — this _does not_ fucking mean I want your opinions or ideas on the way I run things, get it? And if you’re really as smart as we both know you are, you will fucking keep this democracy bullshit to yourself. I catch so much as a fucking _whisper_ of putting the people in power — fuck the iron or Lucille,  I will feed you straight to the walkers, _piece by fucking piece_. We clear?”

“Understood.” You respond, taking care to keep your tone subdued with his threat still hanging in the air.

“Fucking good.” Negan says, holding your gaze for an extra beat before giving a slight nod of his own. With that last loose thread taken care of, you can tell he’s just about finished with you, his business here drawing to a close. 

And you know you should be glad that things seem to be wrapping up while you still have all your limbs intact—especially considering some of the turns the conversation has taken—but you’re still a little too dazed to be able to process things clearly. In fact, you’re only somewhat listening as he makes his parting comments, too overwhelmed by the past few minutes to entirely focus on his words. 

So you just nod in response, barely taking in how he looks you over one last time before turning to go.

Maybe it’s because he’d remained fairly lenient with you during your conversation so far, letting your rebellious and challenging comments slide instead of shutting them down. Maybe it’s because this back-and-forth has been more mentally and emotionally exhausting than you’re prepared for. But realistically, it probably has more to do with the fact that you’re fucking _tired_ of spending your days scrubbing blood from the floor.

So you decide to take one last gamble, because you see the opportunity in front of you and you’re not sure when you’ll have this chance again.

You really shouldn’t be surprised when it _spectacularly_ blows up in your face.

As Negan is starting to take those first few steps down the hall, to head off back into the Sanctuary with whatever unknowable conclusions he’s drawn from your conversation, you hear yourself say, “wait — one more thing, before you go.”

Negan turns back to face you, surprise sketched out clearly in his expression at your words. “Yes, sweetheart?” He asks, the words spilling out in a slow drawl as he looks at you, not bothering to hide his curiosity at this new turn of events.

“Can I ask you something?”

He cocks an eyebrow, taking a step closer in your direction. “You may — though I make no fucking promises to give you an answer.”

You nod, his response about what you expected. “Fair enough.”

“So…” he lets the words hang in the air as he pauses for a beat, “what do you have to say?”

If you were really that smart, you’d take this window to back out. But you’re tired and tact has never been your strong suit, so you forge ahead.

“I guess I was just wondering…” You begin slowly, before deciding to fuck hedging and euphemisms and just get right to the point. “Look — can you give me _some_ sense of how much longer I’m going to be stuck here?”

The expression that crosses Negan’s face should have been your clue to abort, abort, fucking _abort_ , but you choose to ignore it.

“Fucking excuse me?” He asks, his voice noticeably lower.

“I get that I screwed up that day on the road — really, I _do_. I get that I deserved a punishment and I know that I only have myself to blame for this. I’m not trying to make excuses for that. And I know it’s only been a few weeks, but _believe me,_ I have learned my lesson.”

Negan takes another step closer, and it begins to dawn on you that—once again—oh shit, oh _shit_ , you’ve _fucked up_.

“Listen carefully, sweetheart,” he says, eyes sharp and uncomfortably piercing, “you are severely underestimating just how _close_ I came to killing somebody that day.” He takes another step, nudging aside the bucket of cleaner with his boot and orienting himself you so you have to put the wall at your back if you want to keep meeting his gaze. “After the kind of shit you were pulling? Oh _hell —_ you have no _idea_ how many fuckers I have ended for _so much less_ than that.”

There’s an edge to his words that’s got you rooted in place. You’d let yourself be deceived by his earlier nonchalance and casual behavior. You’d forgotten he was built of steel and barbed wire and effortlessly capable of tearing you apart.

“Next thing,” he continues. “You think you’ve learned your lesson?” Another step, this time towards you, and it’s a reflex to take a mirrored step backwards until you feel the plaster of the wall hitting your shoulder blades. “The very fact that we are standing here having this conversation proves _very mother-fucking clearly_ that you _haven’t_. Not even fucking _close_.” He doesn’t move forward any closer, but he does incline his head slightly, bringing it ever-so-closer to yours. “You fucking think you’re here because you’re being punished? That right?” He pauses, waiting on your answer, but all you can manage at this point is one slow, unsteady nod.

“Listen closely, sweetheart.” His voice drops a little further. “That is one reason why you’re here, but it sure as shit ain’t the _only_ reason.”

You frown slightly, not quite sure what he’s getting at — not appreciating the way he’s staring at you with that knowing smile.

“First of all — yeah, you’re fucking right this is a punishment. Out there on the road, you disobeyed, flat-out fucking ignored, _and_ disrespected me — all in one go.” Negan lets out a laugh, the sound harsh and jarring in the deafeningly silent hallway. “Which would almost have been impressive if it weren’t so monumentally _not fucking cool_. Shit like that _does not_ fly around here, get it? So you needed a good long lesson in how _not cool_ that bullshit was. And you needed to learn—still fucking do, as a matter of fact—who the _fuck_ is in charge around here.” He takes another small step forward in the narrow width of the hallway, and you can’t help that slight hitch in your breath at his new and sudden nearness. “You don’t get to question me, you don’t get to fucking talk back to me, you _certainly_ do not get to argue with me — you get to fall down on your knees when I walk by like _fucking everybody else_ and that’s fucking _it_. And you can look forward to a life of scrubbing shit off the floor until that’s something you’ve fully fucking accepted.”

Negan pauses for a beat, cocking one eyebrow as he looks at your fragile composure with a terrifying level of impassivity.

“No? Nothing to say?” A smile creeps slowly over his face. “We finally making some fucking progress? Fucking great — let’s move on. Second, I needed everyone else to know how _not fucking cool_ that shit was.” Negan looks down the hall in both directions, shaking his head slightly at you. “See, sweetheart, you didn’t just fucking disrespect me — you stood up to me in front of a _dozen_ of my men. You say that I keep these people safe and you are absolutely fucking right. But you wanna know how I pull that shit off?” His voice quiets, the words coming out almost as a whisper.

“Only way I can keep any of these mindlessfuckwits safe is with my Saviors. Understand me, I make it a point to send the worst fuckers out to the outposts away from the sweet fucking innocents, but every goddamn _one_ of my Saviors is a mean motherfucker. And you know what else? The _only_ fucking way they stay in line is if they respect me—if they fucking _fear_ me—if they know beyond a fucking shadow of a fucking doubt that I am _not someone to be fucked with_.” Another step, and now the ink-black leather of his jacket is barely inches away from you.

“And what happened out there on the road?” His head dips down towards yours. “They saw _you—_ some bitch half my size—who fucking _refused_ to back down. I let that shit go unpunished and you know what happens next? My Saviors start to question me, start to fucking doubt me — and slowly, this entire operation begins to crumble.” The last words are barely a hiss in the silence, low and quiet and razor sharp.

Then, abruptly, he moves away, taking a step back and giving you the space to let out the breath you didn’t know you were holding.

“Now,” he begins, a smile back on his face and his tone infused with some of that deceptive levity, “generally I’d just let Lucille get nice and fucking filthy in some fucker’s brain matter, but a group your size?” Negan shakes his head, letting out a slight _tsk_. “Just not fucking practical, sweetheart. Fucking bad for business, get me? But make no mistake,” his voice drops again, “I had to do _something_ with you. So I send you _here —_ lump you in with the lowest of the fucking low.”

Negan pauses, cocking his head as he considers you with a wide, shit-eating grin. “You understand that, don’t you? The people in maintenance don’t just clean up shit — they _are_ shit. You only end up in maintenance when you’ve fucked up, and sweetheart, you _sure fucking fucked up_. So I keep up appearances in front of my Saviors and all of your friends get to keep their heads — now, I think that’s pretty fucking fair, don’t you? Pretty fucking diplomatic, all things considered, wouldn’t you agree?”

At some point, you realize your fear’s become infected with rage as well. It’s not as if you need a laundry list of your failures spelled out for you like you’re a goddamn child.

“Would you like me to stop?” Negan asks, as if he can hear the thoughts crackling in your mind. “Had enough yet? Or shall I fucking continue?”

Your entire body is rigid with anger, but you can’t bring yourself to answer him either way.

“Not a fucking mind reader,” he presses at your silence. “Now, would you like me to stop or shall I carry on?”

And you want him to stop, because this is humiliating and infuriating and _god_ you don’t want to hear any more of this. But there’s a larger part of you that burns with some kind of masochistic curiosity to know what else he has to say. So you steel your voice and you meet that questioning look in his eyes, and you spit out from behind gritted teeth, “…keep going.”

Negan answers with a smile that comes nowhere close to reaching his eyes and a slight shrug, as if to say “you fucking asked for it”.

“Third — I don’t trust you. And this goes fucking beyond not feeling comfortable placing a gun in your hand or putting you on patrol or supply runs. No, I don’t trust you with _people_.”

An unsure expression must have crossed your face, because Negan answers with an unconvinced shake of his head.

“Don’t fucking look at me like that — you know _exactly_ what I’m talking about. You know what I saw out on the road that day we brought you and your friends in? Loyalty. Pure organic fucking loyalty. Your friends were scared of me — hell, they were fucking _terrified_. They were practically pissing their pants the more I kept talking, but even with how fucking afraid they were, not one—not fucking _one_ of them—broke down and gave in before you.” Negan lets out a low laugh, the sound almost skeptical.

“Fucking amazing, really. They could have dropped to their knees as soon as I said the word—and I _promise_ you, sweetheart, they sure fucking _wanted_ to—but instead they waited for your signal. They followed your lead even as you were marching them right to the brink — and _that_? That is a _dangerous_ kind of loyalty.” He catches your eyes again, his look unflinching. “And the asshole capable of inspiring that kind of fucking devotion? A threat — no matter who the fuck they are.

“So, for me, that meant two fucking things. One, I did not want you working anywhere _near_ your friends. Couldn’t let the four of you fuckers band together when this is already such a fragile fucking establishment. And two, I didn’t want you working near _anyone_ who might give two shits about what you have to say. Because maybe you’ve got something planned, and maybe you don’t, but either fucking way, I’m not willing to take the risk. And if you haven’t learned by now, sweetheart, I can assure you — no one in maintenance gives a flying _fuck_ about you. Even if you wanted to cause trouble, you’d be hard pressed finding anyone who gives a _shit_ about what you have to say.”

You know you have no plans to incite rebellion or stage a coup, but if Negan wanted you feeling isolated, he couldn’t have played the situation better. And you’re infuriated and embarrassed at how easily he managed to pull that off.

But you keep your anger in check for the time being, because you can tell he isn’t finished speaking quite yet.

“And the last reason you’re here, sweetheart,” Negan says, “is for your own benefit.”

Put simply, _that_ is something you weren’t expecting to hear.

“Excuse me?” You ask, surprise battering through your composure so the question slips out before you can catch it.

“Need me to repeat myself?” Negan asks, tone slightly mocking.

“ _No_ ,” you shoot back, “I fucking heard you the first time.” At some point you’d balled your hands into fists, and you can feel your ragged nails digging into your rough palms. “I’m wondering what the _fuck_ that’s supposed to mean.”

The last thing you should be doing right now is pushing him, but—hell—you can’t wait to hear what he has to say next.

“Listen carefully,” Negan begins, his voice low and rough as it pins you in place. “I don’t think you really appreciate the position you put _yourself_ in when you decided to go toe-to-toe with me.” A step forward, but the wall is already at your back and there’s nowhere else you can go to put some distance between you and the barely-contained hurricane of a man hovering just in front of you.

“Because that? That drew attention to you in a _big_ fucking way. And trust me, sweetheart, that is a level of notice you _do not want_ in a place that houses men like these.”

And now you understand where he’s going, and you want him to stop but he has no intention of letting you off that easy.

“The minute you stood up to me, you put a target on your back.” There’s an anger in his expression and his tone that you don’t expect, as if he’s furious at you for having been so careless as to end up in that position in the first place. “I run a tight fucking ship here, but even with my zero-fucking-tolerance policy for sexual violence, doesn’t mean there aren’t fuckers living here who wouldn’t try something if they saw a chance.”

He rests one hand on the wall just next to your head, fencing you in as he leans in close enough for you to count the bristles in his salt-and-pepper stubble.

“And someone like you, sweetheart? On your feet, chin up, fucking defiant ’til the end — fuck, some of them might start to wonder what it would take to _break_ you. What it would take to put you down on your knees.”

His voice has become a low and sinful whisper, and you’re embarrassed at how your heart is hammering in your chest. You can’t tell if you’re shaking because you’re pissed or because you’re terrified — can’t tell if that flutter in your limbs and the uneven breath catching in your lungs is proof of your fury or fear at the thought that Negan might actually be right.

It’s not like you don’t know the danger of being a woman still alive in the middle of an apocalypse, but the threat of imminent death had temporarily pushed that concern out of your mind — that is, until Negan brought it back to the forefront of your thoughts. And you don’t know how to concede that he might have a point, so—naturally—you respond with anger instead.

“So, what?” With the little personal space he’s left you, you nod towards the blood on the floor and the bucket of cleaner. “I’m supposed to understand that sticking me in maintenance was also intended as some kind of goddamn _favor_?”

You don’t want to think about what it means if he made this decision with you in mind. You don’t want to go anywhere _near_ what it might imply that some part of his choice was influenced by your safety.

So you leave that line of thought alone, because the only feasible explanation is that Negan is fucking with your head again. He’s already admitted to wanting you kept complacent and subdued — shouldn’t a few mind games just be par for the goddamn course?

“Make no mistake,” and you can hear the sincerity in his tone, as he holds your gaze carefully, “my first interest is _myself_ and fucking _myself alone_.” He drops his hand from the wall, stepping back into the hallway and tilting his head as he looks you over. “All I’m saying is this — I needed to make sure you stayed in line and out of sight, and you—whether you fucking _accept it or not—_ needed to learn to keep your head down.”

You want to fight back. You want him to be lying. You want him to be _wrong_. But then you think over every reason he’s given you so far, and can’t help but notice that he chose not to make a public example out of you. He didn’t punish you with the iron or find a way to turn you into some kind of cautionary tale with the entire Sanctuary watching.

He could have, but he didn’t. Instead he’d chosen to put you in a place where you were guaranteed to become forgotten. And it’s hard to deny there being a certain kind of safety in that.

The silence between you two stretches on, and you know that the ball is un-fucking-deniably in your court. But after such an overwhelming series of revelations, you have no _idea_ how to respond.

Fuck him. _Fuck_.

“Alright…” you begin slowly, tentatively breaking the quiet and choosing to sidestep his last remarks. “So what happens next?” Your words are hesitant and unsure in the charged environment that fills the hallway.

Negan lets out a slight exhale, dropping a little of the fire that had filled his words. “Nothing, for the time being. You get back to work—keeping in mind everything I’ve just said, because I _will not_ be back to have this conversation with you again—and in the meantime?” He shrugs absently, “let’s just say you’ve fucking given me some shit to think over.”

He takes a few steps down the hallway, boots clicking with a sharp efficiency on the concrete floor. Before he’s gone too far, he pauses, turning to give you a look that seems faintly amused.

“Best get back to it, sweetheart,” he says, tilting his head towards the blood on the floor. “Leave it much longer and it’ll stain the cement.”

And then he’s gone, the echo of his boots soon fading in the still air.

It’s hard to put into words exactly how you’re feeling right now, but— _hell with it_ —you’re too dazed and tired to even try. So, not exactly left with any other choices, you drop down to your knees, fishing the brush out of the bucket before getting back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, I know I promised this chapter quite a bit sooner
> 
> but in my (weak) defense, it ended up turning into quite a bit more than I anticipated, clocking in at a little over 6.6k words. so much for trying to keep all the chapters the same length, but what can I say? these two are quite a bit chattier than I'd initially anticipated
> 
> anyway, huge enormous gratitude and kudos to TheBannedAuthor for helping beta this chapter. I'm so sorry it ended up being so lengthy but your comments were invaluable in helping clean it up and polish it into something ready to be published. I can't thank you enough, but I can at least give you a shout out at the end of the chapter
> 
> as always, thank you everyone for kudos/comments -- hope you like this chapter and I hope you're excited to see where the story goes next!


	10. Chapter 10

“Hey — you busy?”

It’s about an hour after dinner and you’re reclining on your bunk when Marie’s voice cuts through the ambient noise filtering in from the hallway. Your face is hidden behind the dirt-smudged pages of the hand-me-down paperback you’d borrowed from Dana, so you tuck your index finger between the pages to mark your place and prop yourself up on your elbows to meet her gaze, the questioning expression in her face just visible over the slats running down the side of your bed.

“Swamped.”

“Very funny.” Marie says, ignoring the amused upturn of your smile as she leans forward, balancing on her toes and resting her elbows on the edge of your bunk. “In all seriousness, though, do you have some time to chat? I have some news.”

A questioning line creases your brow as you consider the look on her face. “Good or bad?”

She pauses for a moment, considering. “Good  — at least, I think it is. So, is now an alright time?”

You’re tired—really, though, when aren’t you?—but there’s a sort of infectious enthusiasm in her tone that’s impossible to ignore. Replacing your index finger with the gum wrapper you’ve been using as a bookmark, you let the paperback fall to the cot and pull yourself upright.

“It’s perfect.” Shifting slightly on the narrow twin, you turn so you’re facing Marie, back resting on the rough concrete behind you. “What is it?”

“Oh—wait a minute—first things first.” Marie says, eyes lighting up as she ducks back down to hunt for something in her backpack. From this perspective, you can’t see much more than her fingertips pushing strands of dark hair back behind her ears as she searches, the toe of her boot tapping an absent rhythm on the floor. You can only guess at what she might be looking for, but you can’t imagine what she might have stowed away that could have sparked such a look in her eye.

And you certainly don’t expect the small package wrapped in faded newspaper and duct tape that she hands you through the slats.

“The hell is this?” You ask looking down at her, tone equal parts curiosity and confusion.

“It’s a gift, dumbass.” Marie says, meeting your gaze squarely and wearing an amused look of her own. “Happy birthday.”

You catch Marie’s eye and answer her light-hearted grin with a questioning smile of your own. “Granted, it’s been a long goddamn time since I crossed dates off a calendar, but I am fairly certain that today is _not_ my birthday.”

“No,” she says, giving you an easy and unconcerned shrug, “but it will be at some point. And it was at some point last year. Either way — now I’ve got my bases covered.”

Your thumb traces a line over the newspaper wrapping and duct tape seams, and you can’t help but shake your head in amazement and disbelief because you can’t imagine who else would be thinking about birthdays in the middle of the apocalypse and you have no _idea_ what you ever did to deserve meeting someone like Marie.

“Can I open it?” You ask, feeling like a kid as you hear the faint undertones of excitement creeping into your voice.

“No.” Marie deadpans, waiting until she sees you raise your eyebrows questioningly before relenting with a slight nod of her head. “ _Yes_ , of course you can open it.”

You’re still meeting her eyes with a curious look on your face as your fingers fumble with the duct tape fastenings, the sun-bleached newspaper soon giving way under your nails as you pull at the pages of outdated headlines and faded print. And after you’re left with a pile of crumpled paper scraps on the cot next to you, your eyes drop down to examine the picture frame in your hands, turning over the polished and lightly chipped dark wood between your fingers. 

“Do you like it?” Marie asks, voice sounding hopeful as she waits for your reaction. “I thought it looked nice, but—hell _—_ there weren’t exactly a ton of options. I was thinking you could use it for that photo you’re always carrying with you. I mean, I know it isn’t exactly the most practical or useful thing these days but, since we seem to be settling in here, it seemed like it might help this place feel a little more, homey? I guess? Shit, fuck — if you don’t want it, that’s fine—”

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

“Excuse me?”

You lower the frame down onto the cot, thumb brushing a delicate line over the unbroken pane of glass as you do. Leaving Marie looking at you with an unsure expression, you swing your legs over the metal bed frame and ease yourself lightly to the ground, saying nothing as you pull her into a hug that you hope conveys all the gratitude and embarrassing teary-eyed emotion you’re currently feeling and don’t know how to express.

But she understands—because she’s Marie, so of course she does—and there’s a sort of indescribable comfort in feeling her arms around you, in the fact that, somehow, you both are still here and still alive.

“So…you _do_ like it?” She asks hesitantly after you let go, waiting to see the smile of confirmation on your face before allowing her own expression of happiness and relief to show.

“You _are_ ridiculous, though,” you maintain, ducking down to take a seat on her bunk as you look up at her in disbelief. “Honestly. And you _do_ know that I’m not worth spending your points on, right?” You raise one eyebrow at her, but she just laughs and shakes her head.

“Beg to differ — on both counts. But if that’s your piss-poor way of trying to say ‘thank you’, you can make it up to me another way instead.” 

“Oh?” You ask, watching as she takes the seat on the bed across from you, one leg folded beneath her, toes of her woolen socks tucked under the edges of a salvaged crocheted blanket.

“Nothing too sinister, I promise — I just want to have a chat.”

You’re unconvinced at the too-innocent look on her face, and it shows in the unsure lines of your expression. “That’s it? You know, we do talk all the time.”

It surprises you when Marie shakes her head, at the look of dissatisfaction on her face. “We don’t though, not really — not lately, anyway. And definitely not just the two of us.” She’s right about that, at least. The two of you get along well with Molly and Dana but four people sharing a small dorm can be a struggle at the best of times, and it’s rare to find any moment of privacy or solitude in the cramped space.

And—if you’re being honest with yourself—you know that there’s a hell of a lot you haven’t told her. It’s been about a week since your run-in with Negan and, despite his words having stuck in your mind like the lyrics of a song playing on loop, you’ve yet to tell Marie—or anyone else, for that matter—about what happened. 

“Alright,” you say, pulling one knee up to your chest as you meet her gaze levelly, “then let’s talk. You said you had news, right?”

Marie nods. “Yeah, I do,” she says after a pause. “Something that happened to me and Luke today.”

“Am I supposed to guess?” You ask, tone slightly teasing as you try to restore some levity to the atmosphere. 

Marie smiles and shakes her head in response. “I mean, you can guess if you _want_ to — but it might be easier if I tell you myself.

“It started during our work shift,” she begins, palms resting on the threadbare denim of her jeans. “We we were sent on a simple assignment outside the walls — just picking up some materials from a nearby shopping center, the kind of thing that shouldn’t have taken more than two, three hours.” She pauses, giving you a rueful smile. “It was _supposed_ to be straightforward, but you know how easily things tend to go south outside the walls.”

“This does not sound like a promising start to the story,” you interrupt, giving her a cautious look. “I thought you said this was good news?”

“It is, so be patient and let me finish telling it.” You hold up your hands in surrender and Marie continues.

“There were a little more than a dozen of us on the crew and the man in charge, Trent, was—I still can’t fucking believe it—almost _unbelievably_ under-qualified for the job. You know what I mean — he’s the kind of asshole who’s spent more of the apocalypse hiding behind someone else with a gun than doing any actual fending for himself.” Marie shakes her head, whether in disbelief or exasperation, you can’t tell. “And if the afternoon had stayed quiet, things probably wouldn’t have been much worse than having to deal with a shitty supervisor. But—come on—of _course_ it wasn’t that easy.

“We were loading up the trucks when they started filtering into the parking lot — stumbling their way out of the trees and between the cars to where we were all working. First, just one or two…then, closer to thirty and forty and _fuck_ they just _kept coming_.” Marie looks up at you, chin resting on her hand. “You should’ve been there because you would not have fucking _believed_ this asshole. Trent’d been loading supplies with another crew member closer to the edge of the lot, but the goddamn _second_ he saw that the walkers were starting to outnumber us, he just fucking _panicked —_ ditched his partner and fucking _bolted_ for the safety of the trucks, leaving this poor guy all on his own. I swear — Trent couldn’t have handled microwaving a goddamn TV dinner, let _alone_ trying to lead a dozen people against an attack like that.

“Once there were a few people between him and the walkers, he started trying to give us orders — to goddamn take charge like his cowardice was somehow part of a plan. Told us to ditch the supplies and get back in the cars and just _drive_ and that if anybody didn’t—or couldn’t—make it back to the cars, they were shit out of luck.”

Marie pauses for a moment, looking up to catch your eye and smiling in spite of the suspense written clearly into your expression. “You know, both Luke and I agree that you have _clearly_ had a bad influence on us — honestly. Because as soon as we realized what Trent was doing— _hell_ —we both _sprinted_ out of the group towards the guy who he’d left to face fifteen walkers on his own with a knife he barely knew how to use. Before he was surrounded, we managed to get one of the cars at our back and keep the walkers held off just before he got his goddamn face chewed off. And we could hear Trent shouting some bullshit at us as we ran away from the trucks, heard him telling the others to fucking leave us and _go_ , but none of them did. No — fucking somehow, they followed our lead and started chipping away at the walkers a few at a time.

“Shit, you should’ve _seen_ Trent’s face when he saw what Luke and I had done — that once we started organizing the crew and giving orders, they weren’t just listening to us but were actually prepared to follow our command. We had a couple close calls, but after a few more minutes, all the walkers were taken out and everyone on the crew was still alive and unharmed.” She looks down, but you can still see the hint of a smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Which was honestly a goddamn _miracle._ ”

“Anyway, after we’d finished loading up the trucks, the ride back here was…fucking tense, to say the least. Trent was clearly _beyond_ pissed at having been shown up like that, but _fuck him_ because neither Luke or I were about to goddamn _apologize_ for having saved a man that he’d left to die. Besides, it wasn’t like we were planning on saying anything about it — I think we both figured that, once we were back inside the walls, that would’ve been the end of it.

“But I guess someone on the crew must’ve told our supervisor, Lee, what happened, because he caught up with us at the end of the day and asked to speak before we left for dinner. And the rest of our shift, Luke and I couldn’t stop worrying about how the _fuck_ this whole thing was going to play out. But don’t worry,” Marie says, letting out a slight laugh when she catches sight of the tense look on your face, “it has a happy ending.”

“Yeah, it fucking better.” You say, nudging Marie with your foot, “or else you and I need to have a serious conversation about what constitutes ‘good news’.”

“Relax, relax — it all worked out.”

“Yeah, you _say_ that,” you press, “but so far I’m not hearing any of the specifics. Come on, asshole, what the hell happened next?”

“Alright, well after our shift was finished for the day, we headed to Lee’s office — a small shed just outside the main factory. He was sitting behind his makeshift desk, looking at both of us with this goddamn unreadable expression that did _nothing_ to ease either of our nerves. But then he told us that we could relax — that we weren’t in trouble, and that he had a proposition for us instead.”

“What kind of proposition?” You ask, resting your elbows on your knees as you lean forward slightly.

“He told us that he’d heard about what’d happened at the lot — how Trent had tried to cut and run and how we’d handled the situation instead. He told us that he was impressed, and that the kind of bravery we’d shown was wasted hauling supplies for the construction crew.

“And then he told us that a couple slots had opened up on one of the supply run teams, and he asked us if we wanted the job.”

By the time Marie finishes speaking, her voice is clear and focused, but she isn’t quite meeting your gaze, instead choosing to look down at the dirt set in around the base of her nails.

“Holy shit — are you serious?” You ask, tone a mixture of pride and amazement. But you’re confused, because you can’t quite reconcile the news with the hesitant look on Marie’s face.

“Yeah, I am.” She says, finally lifting her head to meet your gaze. “We were both pretty surprised and Lee offered us a day to consider the offer, but I think we both knew right away that we wanted to take it.

“Thing is,” Marie pauses for a beat, biting the inside of her cheek. “Both Luke and I were…hesitant to accept the proposal until we’d had a chance to talk to you. I think we were both a little worried or unsure about how you’d take the news.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, feeling more than a little perplexed.

“Well, back when we first arrived, we knew you’d been hoping to be assigned to patrols or supply runs, and I guess we were feeling a little guilty at having gotten an offer for the job that you wanted while you’re…well…”

Marie trails off uncomfortably, leaving the unspoken words hanging in the air. You give a slow nod in understanding as her meaning sinks in — that they didn’t know if you’d be feeling bitter or angry that they’ll be doing a job that actually makes a difference while you’re stuck scrubbing floors in maintenance.

To be fair, Marie probably wouldn’t have phrased it in those terms, but the idea is the same.

“First of all,” you say, giving Marie an amused smile as she looks back at you, “you are both _batshit_ — alright? You honestly thought that I’d—what?—fucking _resent_ you two for having saved the lives of a dozen people and been recognized for being deserving enough of a better job? Are you _shitting_ me?” You lean forward slightly, holding Marie’s sheepish gaze with a level and unrelenting look of your own. “Listen to me — I am _thrilled_ for both of you. A little hurt, maybe, that you think I’d let my own goddamn self-importance get in the way of being happy for you — but _thrilled_ nonetheless. I _know_ you’re both going to do great, but trust me when I say that if either one of you are careless enough to get hurt out there, I will kick both of your asses _myself_.”

“Fine, fine,” Marie says with a relieved and easy smile, “fair enough.”

“Glad we’re on the same page.” You say, matching the grin on her face with one of your own. “So when’s the first run?”

“We leave in a couple days, and then should be gone for about a week? Maybe a little longer.”

“Damn — I might even miss you two while you’re gone.”

“Wow, careful not to get _too_ emotional.” Marie teases. “Besides, I’m sure we’ll be back before you know it.”

Offering Marie a smile in agreement, you ease yourself up off her cot. “Promise me you’ll keep an eye out for each other, yeah?”

“You know that goes without saying,” Marie says, “but yes, I promise.”

You nod, making a move to climb back up to your bunk and return to your paperback when Marie says, “wait — one more thing.”

“Yeah?” You ask, looking at her with one hand resting on the edge of the bed frame.

“I’m sure you already know this,” she begins, “and I’m sure it doesn’t need to be said but—hell with it—I’m gonna say it anyway.”

“Marie?“

“You know I’m here for you, right? You and I have been through a _fair_ _amount_ of shit together, and I just want you to know that—whatever it is that’s going on with you—you can count on me. And that if there’s anything you’ve been holding back or keeping to yourself because—fuck, I don’t know—because you think I can’t handle it, or you think you’re doing me a favor — _don’t_. You’ve been there for me more goddamn times than I can count, and I need you to know that you can rely on me in the same way.”

It’s hard not to feel guilty in that moment, to be acutely aware of every emotion and uncomfortable fact you’ve kept secret from Marie out of some misguided desire to keep her ignorant and unburdened. And it is _so_ goddamn tempting to come clean — because she’s got that earnest look on her face and you’re so _tired_ of feeling isolated and alone. You want to let go and open up about _everything_ — how maintenance is a kind of relentlessly defeating punishment that you don’t know how to endure, how there are days when you almost miss being out on the road because at least you felt sure of yourself, how you’ve been turning over Negan’s words in your head for the last week and still aren’t sure what to make of them.

_Fuck,_ do you want to — but you don’t. 

It isn’t that you don’t trust her and it isn’t that you don’t think she can handle it — it’s that this shit has been weighing on your mind for close to a month, and it feels profoundly unfair to ask her to share your burdens just a few short days before she heads out on a supply run. And part of you is distinctly aware that this is just another excuse and that there will always be reasons _not_ to open up. 

More likely, you’re just not ready to have that conversation with her, not even sure what words you would use. You will tell her though, at some point, but it’s easy to convince yourself that now isn’t the right time.

“Yeah,” you say, meeting her gaze and looking at her with an understanding smile. “I know.”

And if it seems like there’s an expectant look on her face—as if she knows all the things you’re keeping from her and she’s offering you this window to speak your mind—well, fuck, it’s probably just your imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright, a couple quick things:
> 
> a) as always, _boy_ am I sorry for the delay. I wish I could publish regularly enough to never need these kinds of late apologies, but, uh, I am nowhere near that reliable when it comes to updates
> 
> b) holy _hell_ , thank you all so, so much for the kind words and comments on the last chapter. I was particularly worried about how it would be received (since it does feature Negan so heavily and I'm always worried I don't do his character justice) but I can't tell you how much it means to me to hear that you all are enjoying it
> 
> c) so, as you probably noticed, no Negan in this chapter. it's partially to set up some future plot points, but I also wanted a little bit of a break after the tension in the last chapter. and it's important to me that the story isn't just about the OC/Reader's relationship with Negan, but that she has a narrative independent of her interactions with him
> 
> d) this is Too Much to be writing in an author's note so I'm gonna stop -- thank you all again for reading, and your kudos/comments. I guarantee you that I do not deserve it. 
> 
> hope you enjoy!


	11. Chapter 11

You _are_ happy for Luke and Marie—though becoming more adept at lying is one of the tricks you’d added to your survivalist toolkit, that part consisted of the whole and untarnished truth—but it’s also hard not to feel those first flickers of anxiety two days later when you see her packing for the supply run. You know that they can both take care of themselves, have seen the evidence of it enough on the edge of their knives, but you also know how easy—how _likely_ —it is for something to go wrong out on the road. Safety is a luxury, and you can’t help but hate the idea of them once more falling asleep without the protection of walls around them.

It’s the evening before the run and you’ve taken up a spot on Marie’s bunk, legs crossed under you and elbows resting on your knees as you watch her pack toothpaste and deodorant into the front pocket of her backpack, matchbook and Swiss army knife cushioned by a second pair of socks. Dana’s paperback is resting half-open across your thigh, but it’s more for appearances than anything else because after the past forty-five minutes of rereading the same six sentences over and _over_ while you tried to distract yourself, you eventually realized the exercise was pointless. 

You fold your hands into fists to keep from drumming anxious rhythms on your knee. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop from lecturing Marie on all the things she’ll need to be careful of—all the things that, of course, she already knows—as she folds an extra shirt and another pair of jeans.

Breathe. Relax. 

She’s going to be okay. Luke’s going to be okay.

_Breathe_.

The group is scheduled to leave at dawn the following morning, eight of them split between a couple of cars for the drive. You’ve asked Marie to wake you when she’s about to go, to fit in one last goodbye before she and Luke head out for the next ten days.

It’s just because you’ll miss them, and because ten days apart is longer than you’ll have been separated since you all first crossed paths.

It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that this could be the last time you ever see them.

As Marie zips closed the last pouch on her backpack, double-checking a few frayed seams and the seal on her water bottle, you let out a deep sigh, fingers rubbing at the corners of your tired eyes. 

“You alright?” She asks, glancing up, brows drawn in concern as if _you’re_ the one to worry about.

“Pretty sure I should be asking you that.” You answer, giving her an easy smile that feels unconvincing. “How are you doing? Nervous?”

Marie drops her backpack to the ground and takes a seat on the bed while she unlaces her boots, fingers pulling lazily at the knots as she looks up at you. “I was earlier—a little, at least—but now?” She gives a slight shake of her head, slipping the shoes off her heels and kicking them under the bunk. “I mostly feel restless, ready to get going.” Tilting her head towards you, she raises her brows. “Are you nervous?”

You pause, bottom lip between your teeth as you meet her gaze. “Yeah, I am.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

“If it helps, it’s got nothing to do with you or Luke,” you say, “and everything to do with how unpredictable things are out there.”

“I get that, but you know we’ll be careful, right?” Marie says, giving you a level and steady stare. “You know we’ll be smart. It’s going to be fine.”

And you nod, because you know she’s looking for reassurance, and because you’re not going to share your fears that you haven’t been able to suppress. After all, you do know that they’ll be careful and you’re sure that they’ll be smart.

But you don’t know— _can’t_ know—that it’s going to be fine. You don’t get that guarantee.

With one last look at you, Marie heads out of the dorm and down the hall to the bathrooms to wash up before bed, and you figure you might as well call it a night yourself. Pins and needles pricking through your calves as you uncross your legs, paperback open between your fingers, you climb back up to the top bunk and let yourself relax back on the cot. But you know it’ll be a while yet before you can actually drift off, so you settle for tracing the patterns in the ceiling with your eyes as you wait for the anxiety to abate enough for sleep to take its place.

 

* * *

  

You don’t know how long you laid awake, remember passing the night in fitful moments of rest, but you assume you must have fallen asleep eventually because then Marie’s hand is on your shoulder, her voice quiet in the early morning hour.

“Hey,” she whispers when she sees your eyes blink open, “I’m about to head out. Do you still want to come?”

You nod blearily, not trusting your half-asleep murmurs to resemble anything close to words, and feel your way out from under the blanket and down to the floor. Fingers fumbling in the dark, you manage to get yourself into a pair of jeans, boots slipped on and unlaced around your ankles, a threadbare sweater pulled on over a worn t-shirt. Ignoring the amused upturn of Marie’s face—how the _fuck_ is she this awake, anyway?—you follow her out of the room and into the hall, the _click_ of your boots against the cement sounding hollow in the dawn silence.

With quiet steps and few words, the two of you wend your way down the stairs to the main floor and outside to the front of the compound, a group of a half-dozen or so already milling about over by the cars parked at the front gate. 

“About damn time,” you hear someone say from off to your left when the two of you walk out the door, a chill in the air that stings your skin and has you pulling the sleeves of your sweater down around your fingertips. You turn and see Chase and Luke leaning against the side of the building, Luke with a backpack at his feet, Chase looking as bleary and sleep-deprived as you feel.

“Morning to you, too,” you say with a half-smile, the wind pulling at your hair as you and Marie walk over to where Luke and Chase are waiting. “How long until you head out?” You ask, tilting your head in the direction of the gates.

“Should be soon,” Luke says, tucking his hands a little deeper into the pockets of his sweatshirt. “Checked in with Evelyn—the woman leading the run,” he adds at the look of confusion on your face, “—when Chase and I first got down here. She said she wanted to leave in fifteen.”

“Shit — sounds like we shouldn’t keep you two much longer then.” You push back the lingering anxieties you’ve been fighting to keep at bay as you and Chase exchange brief hugs with Marie and Luke, trying to strike the balance of a goodbye that promises only to be temporary.

But even if none of you verbalize it, the same thought is hanging in the air — what if it isn’t temporary? What if this is it?

So maybe you hold Marie and Luke slightly tighter than you need to — just in case.

“See you when you get back?” You ask after you let go, the last word unintentionally pitched a little higher, so it becomes a question instead of a statement.

“Not if we see you first,” Luke says, his light expression so at odds with your own uncertainty. With one last wave at you and Chase, he and Marie shoulder their backpacks and head over to the crew waiting by the cars, loading their bags into the trunk before taking their seats, the backseat doors of the SUV swinging shut behind them.

“How do you feel about this?” You ask Chase, your eyes still watching the cars as the final preparations are finished and double-checked. “Are you nervous for them?”

You hear him let out a slight exhale next to you, see him shaking his head out of your periphery. “Yeah, I am. But to be fair, I think nervous is just my default setting these days.” He falls silent as he watches a woman with dark hair shut one of the trunks, a gun at her side and keyring in her hand as she climbs into the driver’s seat. “I want to believe that they’re going to be fine—fuck, I wish that I could—but there are just too many unknowns out there.” One of the guards on patrol opens the front gate, waving the line of cars out past the barricade built of walkers. “And all it takes is one mistake for something to go _really_ fucking wrong.”

You know he’s right—know that he must be thinking about Wendy—and you can’t come up with any response that might be reassuring to either of you, so you fall silent. Arms folded across your chest, you watch the cars head out past the walls, watch them recede until the closing gate cuts them off from your view. 

“Should we head in?” You ask, looking over at Chase, his eyes still fixed on the front gate.

“Suppose so.” He says after a beat, following your lead inside the factory past the picnic tables that line the floor of the main hall, faint morning light filtering in through chipped and dirt-streaked glass panes. 

Back across the floor and up the stairs, you part ways at the third-floor landing, Chase giving you a nod goodbye before taking the stairs one flight higher up to his own floor. You hear the sound of his footsteps in the stairwell until the door swings shut behind you, and as you make your way back down the hall to your dorm, you’re already missing the sound of Marie’s steps beside yours.

 

* * *

When you wake the next morning, you settle into your same routine as if nothing’s changed, as if Marie’s bed isn’t empty, like she might as well be standing next to you in the mirror.

Now that it’s just you and Chase, you figure the two of you will head down to breakfast together, same as you did yesterday. After you’re dressed, you head out into the hall to wait for him, back resting against the jamb as you bring your knee up to your chest to tighten the knots of your laces. But the minutes tick by and the hallway begins to empty and when there’s still no sign of Chase, you figure either he’s gotten an earlier start than usual or he’s slept in, but that if you wait much longer you’ll end up working the rest of the day on an empty stomach. One last look in the direction of the stairwell, wondering if you should give him another few minutes, you eventually push off from the wall and follow a handful of other Sanctuary members down to the factory floor, guessing you’ll catch up with Chase at dinner tonight.

But then the end of the day rolls around and despite wandering past every picnic table in the mess hall, you still don’t see him. And now confusion and faint frustration is starting to be replaced by something closer to panic, because you can’t justify him skipping two meals in a row no matter how you spin the situation in your head. With your list of viable explanations running shorter and shorter, you head out to the gardens to see if he might still be working.

The sun is starting to dip below the horizon when you slip out a side door into the grounds that surround the factory. Just past the corrugated metal walls of the makeshift shed, you catch sight of several plots of freshly turned earth, a woman in a baseball cap with garden gloves tucked into her belt bent over a row of sprouts.

“Excuse me?” You ask as you approach, the woman’s eyes flicking up towards you as you reach the edge of the plot. “Sorry to interrupt, but I was wondering if you could help me with something?”

The woman stands, brushing soft soil from her knees as she looks you over, one eyebrow raised. “Depends what you need help with.”

“I was just looking for a friend of mine who works here — a guy named Chase? I’m having some trouble finding him and I was wondering if—hell—maybe he was still working.” 

You have to cup your hands over your eyes as the sun sinks a little lower, watching the woman adjust her baseball cap, nodding slightly.

“Yeah, I know Chase — he’s a good kid, and a good worker, too.” She gives a shrug. “Usually, that is. Never showed up for his shift today.”

Fuck. _Fuck._

“Are you sure?” You ask, and she gives you a nod in response. “And he didn’t—I don’t know—check in, or something? Say he was going to be late? Anything?” You can hear the hint of a desperate edge in your words, know that you’re starting to run out of possible answers.

“No, nothing.” The woman says, her words cutting away a little more at your remaining hope. “And while I’m willing to let something like this slide once, let him know when you find him that he better not make a habit of this shit.”

And you tell her you will, because you _will_ find him. You have to, right? He can’t just be _gone_ , can he?

After leaving the gardens, you decide to take a lap around the rest of the compound, see if maybe he just decided to to fuck around and take the day off, like any moment you’ll walk around a corner and see him standing there as if nothing’s wrong.

But you don’t, and soon the light is fading and you’re having trouble finding the ground in front of you, let alone recognizing any of the silhouettes you see. Feeling frustrated and really goddamn hopeless, you head back inside where the mess hall has all but emptied, a handful of people still sitting at the tables but fucking _none of them_ are Chase. Hands in your pockets and eyes still roving back and forth across the room, you head over to the stairwell on the far wall, figuring there’s one place left you haven’t checked, hoping beyond _hope_ that you’ll find him in his room and you can both treat this day like one massive misunderstanding.

Taking the stairs two at a time, you shoulder open the door on the fourth-floor landing, making your way down to Chase’s room at the end of the hall. After a couple quick nocks, you hear a bored sounding voice on the other side call out, “yeah?” and take that as an invitation to come in. Easing open the door, you stand in the frame, eyes skimming over the faces of Chase’s roommates whose names you can barely remember before you catch sight of his bottom bunk, cot stripped of its blankets and sheets, duffel absent from its spot under the bed.

“Hey, I was looking for Chase.” You say, mind racing to come up with _any_ plausible explanation for the scene in front of you. “…Guessing he’s not here, but I was wondering if any of you had seen him?”

Two of his roommates exchange a confused look—the gesture so infinitely unpromising in its implications—before one of them—Oliver, maybe?—looks back at you, an unsure expression on his face. “He left this morning.” 

“Left?” No, _no_. “The fuck do you mean, he left?”

“As in, he packed his shit last night and was gone before any of us were up this morning. And unless he’s shacking up with someone he’s fucking, then he’s taken off.”

You close your eyes, take a breath, _pray_ that there’s no truth to what he’s saying. “He didn’t say _anything_ about where he might be going?”

Oliver lets out a slight laugh and shakes his head. “Fuck, no — he barely said anything _ever_. Chase was a quiet guy who kept to himself and you were sure as _shit_ closer with him than any of us were. If he didn’t tell you where he was going, no fucking _way_ he told us.” He gives you a small conciliatory shrug. “Sorry — I’m sure that’s not what you wanted to hear.”

“No,” you say, sighing with frustration, “not exactly. But thanks, anyway, for your help.” 

Oliver gives you a nod and you step back into the hall, pulling the door shut behind you, fighting the urge to beat your head against the wall because _fucking dammit Chase_ and what the _fuck_ was he thinking and fuck, _fuck_ what are you supposed to do now?

Back resting against the wall, every fear and burden and anxiety comes flooding at you with the force of a fucking freight train and you let yourself slide down to the floor because _fuck_ you barely feel like your legs can keep you upright. Knees pulled up to your chest, head in your hands, you close your eyes and take a few slow, deep breaths, trying to calm the rapid beating of your heart, waiting for some miracle to walk down the hall and take this weight off your shoulders.

Wendy dead. Marie and Luke absent for the next nine days — if they even come back at all. Chase gone.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

It’s quiet in the hall, the silence complete enough that the only thing you can hear is the uneven hitch in your breathing, the sound of your fingers tapping an anxious rhythm on your temple.

You can figure this out, but for _fuck’s sake_ , you have to relax. Breathe. _Breathe_.

One thing at a time.

You’re on your own for this one — that much is obvious. You can’t wait for Marie and Luke’s return, and you don’t know anyone else in the Sanctuary well enough to ask for this kind of help. What’s just as clear is that you can’t leave Chase out there on his own. To have packed all his shit and taken off without a word seems to indicate pretty fucking clearly that he’s not thinking rationally, that he’s acting on impulse and emotion and grief — all of which spells disaster beyond the walls. 

You have to find him, have to talk him down from whatever ledge he’s on and convince him to come back to the Sanctuary.

You can’t let him just _go_ without a fight.

But if he left first thing this morning, by this point he’ll have been on the road for over twelve hours, and without knowing which way he was headed for sure, you don’t have a fucking _prayer_ of catching up to him on foot. You need a car, and you need one _tonight_.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Oh — _hell_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( o h man...wonder what...she's going to do next... )
> 
> ( also guess who's coming back in the next chapter )
> 
> ( also you all are real sweet and I hope you're having lovely evenings )


	12. Chapter 12

You don’t—you _can’t_ —let yourself think about what you’re doing. Burn the map that tells you where this path leads, shut the box on the board game pieces that show you how this story plays out. Keep yourself in the dark not out of fear but out of necessity. As soon as you start to dwell, to second-guess, to rationalize, you’ll have no hope of moving forward. You’ll be down the stairs to the safety of your room where you can pretend this burden belongs on the shoulders of somebody else — to linger in denial just a little longer.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Time is the one thing you don’t have. Maybe if you did you could come up with something else, could stumble backwards into some kind of brilliant solution, could at least cobble together something half-made but workable enough to avoid having to take your current steps.

_Maybe if you did —_ but you _don’t_. And you can’t afford to delay or to wait. You don’t have the luxury of succumbing to fear, even for a moment. So you keep walking— _have_ to keep walking—one foot in front of the other, following the even right-angles of the stairs higher than you’ve ever taken them before, the metal railing uncomfortably cold against the damp sweat on your palms.

Tell yourself you don’t have a choice, because that is the only way you’ll make it through this. Be brave, because you have to be. 

As the fear creeps up closer, poison-green ivy burrowing into the cracks of your imperfect composure, there’s a cynical and selfish part of you that wonders _what is the fucking point_? What if Chase is dead already? Isn’t that the likelier outcome? And so this whole bullshit errand _must_ be pointless because life is short, nasty, brutish beyond the walls of the compound, and not even the lucky survive.

Even if it’s true, you hate yourself for thinking it.

You keep walking.

It isn’t until the seventh-floor landing that Neil’s words from your first day at the Sanctuary come back to you, his initially brusque and unconcerned tone having been replaced by something harsh and uncompromising.

“ _As for the rules? Here’s your first one — fucking never set foot into Negan’s apartment unless he’s called for you explicitly, got it?”_

Fuck. _Fuck_.

It occurs to you that you can still turn back, that as of this moment, you haven’t committed any irreparable sins. Your hands are still clean, the Rubicon uncrossed. And it’d be easy— _fuck—_ it’d be so _easy_ to turn back, to let your legs carry you down the stairs and away from the brink of this ledge. 

You can still run. You _want_ to run.

So you hold onto the door handle until the metal bites into your palm, feel its edges carving creases in your skin to steady yourself. You need to cling to it like an anchor until you find your footing and remember the mechanics of walking.

Fingers wrapped around the knob tight enough that you can’t notice them shaking, you open the door and take your first hesitant step into the hall.

_Breathe._

At first glance, it looks like any other floor in the factory, grey concrete walls interrupted occasionally by the metal slabs of doors, strips of light visible beneath their bottom lips like emergency exit lights running the length of an airplane. But it’s quieter than the dormitory floors, the soft sound of voices filtering only weakly into the hallway, leaving the silence heavy and mostly undisturbed. Taking care to keep your footfalls light, you ease your way past the rooms you assume must belong to the wives, the light laughter and feminine voices standing in such sharp relief to your own uneven breathing. As you near the end of the hall, flexing your fingers to keep them from trembling, you stop outside the second-to-last door, light seeping out from the crack over the threshold where the rest of the rooms in this part of the hall seem to be cast in shadow.

You don’t wonder if he’s in there with some of his men. You don’t think what will happen if he’s there with one of his wives.

You don’t doubt Lucille is somewhere within his arm’s reach.

Blinking your eyes closed for a moment, you wipe the thin film of nervous sweat from the creases in your palms, the denim of your jeans rough against the calluses of your hands.

You can do this.

_You can do this_.

Fingers tightening into a fist, you rap your knuckles against the door.

“Fucking what?” You hear a voice call out from the other side, low and jarring in its familiarity. Feeling terrified, feeling weightless, feeling like you’ve just let yourself fall back into the inky black of an abyss, you open the door and step inside.

Your initial perception of the space is all impressions, flashes of insight and observations that sink in somewhere between the thudding rhythms of your heartbeat. You see low shelves built of polished wood inlay flush against the dark cement walls, rusting pipes and metal fixtures running the length of the ceiling past the baroque edges of a gilt frame. On the back wall, a row of windows offer a view of the evening horizon, broken panes of scratched glass edged by the thick fabric of heavy crimson drapes. The toes of your boots rest on the edges of an ornate carpet that doesn’t quite cover the chipped concrete floors, bright gold and burgundy patterns spiraling beneath the feet of a carved hardwood desk. It’s industrial meets Versailles, grandeur pulled in to paper the walls of a rusting shell. 

It’s ostentation painted thick over frugality. It should look tacky, pretentious, arrogant. 

But it’s like the edge of barbed wire wrapped around polished wood — somehow, it fits.

At the sound of the door, Negan looks up from the papers he was considering in his seat behind the desk, big black boots propped up on its surface, elbows resting lazily on the arms of a leather office chair. And even though you’re still standing in the door, one hand resting on the frame like it’s a lifeline, the moment his eyes meet yours, the whole room suddenly feels too small for the both of you — walls compressed inwards and shrink-wrap constricting your lungs.

“Well now,” he says after a beat, vowels stretched out and tone heavy with amusement, “look who it is.” A careless smile slowly crosses his face as he looks you over, as if he can read the hesitancy in your stance clear across the room. “You lost, sweetheart?”

You look down, taking a moment to hide your uncertainty and doubts behind a neutral mask, clean and unconcerned lines painted over the crease in your brow, impassivity replacing the downturn of your mouth.

“No, not quite,” you say, voice clear and—miraculously—steady. You raise your head, returning his raised brow with a humorless smile of your own. “I was actually looking for you.” You watch a hint of curiosity cross his expression. “Can I come in?”

Negan inclines his head towards one of the chairs across the desk, quirking his brows as he watches your hand slip reluctantly from its hold on the frame. “Be my guest.”

You can feel his eyes on you as you cross the room, the soles of your boots sinking into the plush carpet. As you take the indicated seat, limbs fitting uncomfortably between the stiff lines of the armrests, you can’t shake the feeling of incongruity — like only Negan can take command of such impractical gaudiness and wear it like a tailored suit, to take possession of his surroundings with such an unquestionable sense of ownership. 

He still has his boots up on the desk and you have no idea what to do with your hands. And whether it’s nerves or pride that keeps your spine ramrod straight, you can’t tell, but you take the proffered seat like you’ve got as much right to be here as he does, like you actually believe that the two of you are sitting here as equals.

“So,” you say after a pause, “I was wondering if you had a minute.”

“These days? Got all the fucking time in the world, sweetheart.” Negan says, still smiling, gaze still holding yours levelly. “The fuck is it that I can do for you?”

“I need to ask you something.” You fight the impulse to look away, to tilt your head down, to fidget in your seat like a child facing discipline. “A favor, specifically. And I’d ask that you at least hear me out before making a decision.” 

There’s a self-satisfied look in his expression that you can’t stand, broadcasting a level of surety and ownership over the conversation that you can never hope to match and could only ever fake at best. “You looking for a fucking favor, sweetheart? I hear that right?” He grins, the gesture somehow inviting and unnerving all at the same time. “Maybe starting to feel a little lonely down in those basements? Looking to see if there’s room for one more in my bed?” He looks you over slowly, appraisingly, tongue darting out to trace a line over his lower lip. “That your way of saying I get to see you down on your knees again? Because fucking _fuck,_ sweetheart, did that make a _pretty_ fucking picture.”

You can feel the flush that’s crept over your cheeks as embarrassment and infuriation and fucking _rage_ fight for a place in your expression. You grit your teeth to bite back all the insults on your tongue — _narcissistic, arrogant, motherfucking prick—_

Stop. _Wait_.

Whatever you might want to say to him—and _fuck_ is he an egotistic piece of shit—you came here looking for his help. Help that you still _desperately_ fucking need.

So swallow your fucking pride and clench your fucking fists if that’s what it takes to keep your hands steady.

_You still need him_.

“ _Tempting_ offer,” you finally manage to say, biting the inside of your cheek to keep your tone resembling something polite, “but no— _sorry_ —that’s not why I’m here.”

“Fucking shame,” Negan says, and _fuck him_ for still wearing that stupid fucking grin at the sight of the continued flush in your cheeks, for the self-assurance he wears like a second skin. “Then the fuck is it that you want?”

You were hoping you could make this request with some measure of dignity, that you could ask the impossible without advertising your awareness of your own faults. You wish—for the hundredth goddamn time in the past goddamn hour—that you didn’t have to be here, but that even if you did, you could at least do so with _some fucking shred_ of your pride still intact.

So much for that.

Your eyes glance downwards as you shake your head in disbelief — because you couldn’t have imagined this conversation going any worse and _hell_ you haven’t even gotten to the difficult part yet. But you’re still here, stuck somewhere on the spectrum between sheer terror and ‘fuck it’, and you can’t help the small smile that steals over your face at the absolute goddamn _absurdity_ of this situation.

“I need to borrow a gun,” you say after a beat, raising your head to catch Negan’s eyes, mouth twitching in a smile as you hear yourself—really _listen_ to your words the way he must be hearing them—because what the actual _fuck_ are you doing? “And I need to borrow a car.” You glance up towards the ceiling—whether to avoid seeing Negan’s reaction or praying to the heavens for deliverance, you’re not sure—and blink your eyes closed as you steel your nerves. “And I need them both tonight.”

A pause. Silence as your words sink in. Then—

Negan laughs — because _of course_ he does. Fucking throws his head back and lets loose like this is the goddamn _height_ of comedic humor, like you should be standing in front of him in shiny oversized shoes and a bright red nose because you are that much of a fucking _joke_. 

You should’ve known he’d react this way — because _come on_ , how could he not? You—lowly and unimportant and next-to-goddamn-nothing—coming to the king of the whole goddamn castle and expecting he’d, what? Move mountains for you? For some upstart who’s done nothing but cause him trouble? 

Were you _really_ that deluded? Or were you just that desperate?

After too long, the sound of his laughter tapers off, his head still shaking in unrestrained amusement as he considers your silent figure in front of him, the quiet set of your shoulders, the resigned line of your mouth.

“Tell me, sweetheart,” Negan says after a beat, “just to satisfy my own curiosity, to follow-up on some of the _funniest_ fucking shit I’ve heard in a _long_ fucking time, how the _fuck_ did you really see this conversation going?” 

You let out a slight exhale. “Guessing I should take that as a ‘no’ — which, to be fair, is about the reaction I expected.”

Negan raises his brows, still smiling. “Well, hold the fucking phone, sweetheart, not so fucking fast.” He lifts his shoes off the desk, pulls himself lazily to his feet. “Now, credit where fucking credit is due — fuck knows you must be in possession of some _mighty_ fucking balls to have come here in the first place.” With an easy motion, he picks up Lucille from where she’d been resting against the side of his desk, fingers wrapped comfortably around the handle. “And you asked that I hear you out before making my decision and fucking _trust me_ , I have _every_ fucking intention of doing just that.” He shrugs absently, holding Lucille upright in front of him, eyes wandering carefully over the length of barbed-wire coated wood. “Fucking should not surprise you to learn that I am _exceptionally_ hard up for some new entertainment these days—not that beating the everloving fuck out of these pathetic fucking pussies at ping-pong doesn’t hold some fucking appeal, but shit grows old, get me?—and I am just on the fucking edge of my seat to hear what the _fuck_ it is you have to say that you think could fucking compel me to say yes.” 

He shifts his gaze away from Lucille until he’s looking at you with this mix of mirth and incredulity and you recognize with sharp self-awareness that you have backed yourself into a corner built of titanium, that it would take an escape route sculpted by Escher to get you out of this one. Now, the only way through is forward. And as the silence stretches on and Negan is still waiting, you understand you’ve just got one card left to play. So, shoulders squared, you start to talk.

As you begin, your initial words slow and cautious, Negan paces out from behind the desk and makes his way past your chair until he’s standing in the open stretch of carpet at your back. Tone still hesitant, you recap your arrival at the Sanctuary and remind him of the other members of your group, your eventual dispersal into separate work assignments. You can hear the slight sounds of shifting and movement behind you, but still Negan says nothing. Eventually your curiosity gets the best of you and you turn your head until you can just see him in your periphery, Lucille blurring intermediately in his grasp as he takes practice swings over the carpet. 

“Don’t let me distract you, sweetheart.” Negan says when he notices you’re silent, catches sight of your eyes on him. “Fucking continue.”

So you do, the occasional pause in your speech as you try to remember where you left off, what words you need to continue. Still keeping him and Lucille in your periphery, you summarize Marie and Luke’s promotion and departure on the supply run the day before, Chase’s absence that morning and your search for him that afternoon. Finally, you relate your arrival at Chase’s dorm and the news given by his roommates, your last words coinciding with Negan’s closing swing, his grip shifting to let Lucille hang loosely in his hand as he walked back towards the desk.

“Not that this ain’t a _fascinating_ little fucking slice of history, sweetheart,” he says, propping Lucille against one of the shelves before leaning against the edge of the desk, arms folded over his chest, “but I am _still_  failing to see why your petty fucking personal dramas should oblige me to lend you a gun and a car.”

And it’s a challenge not to shake your head at that — because _fuck him_ for acting like Chase’s life is worth so little. “ _Dammit_ — because Chase didn’t just _leave_ this morning, he fucking _took off_ — packed all of his shit and went running without a goddamn _word_. Because making a move like that can only mean that he’s running on grief and making impulsive decisions and we both know that story ends with his guts spilling out on the pavement somewhere — and that’s just a _fact._ And since my friends headed out on the last supply run, by the time they get back it’ll be too goddamn late, so I am on my own for this one. And since he’s been traveling for fucking _hours,_ I don’t have a shot in the goddamn _dark_ if I go after him on foot.”

As you finish speaking, you realize you’re leaning forward slightly, fingers wrapped around the edge of the seat, tone colored in fervent and pleading shades as you try your goddamn best to convince Negan that this is a worthwhile venture. But he’s just staring back at you with this look of humorless apathy, like he’s starting to run short of the patience he granted you to interrupt his time.

And you can’t help but wonder _why_ you thought there was any fucking _point_ in coming to him in the first place.

“People die every fucking day, sweetheart.” He says, giving you an absent shrug that feels impossibly defeating as he takes his seat back in the chair. “Still not fucking hearing why this should be my fucking concern. He wanted to leave, so he left — fucking end of fucking story.”

You can see your window of opportunity closing, decide to make one more gambit.

“You don’t care about him on his merits as a goddamn person, fucking _fine_ ,” you say, and you can hear where that determined edge is starting to creep into your words, “then look at it from a perspective that might even appeal to your self-interest. He’s _valuable_ — he’s a good goddamn worker—I fucking _assure_ you, his supervisor down at the gardens would say the same—and he contributes more than he takes.” You shake your head, eyes glancing down. “You say you want people working for you, that you want to build the Sanctuary into something better — _how_ do you think that happens? You need people like him. He is goddamn _worth_ going after.”

Negan lets out a slight laugh, drums his fingers against the armrest of his chair. “Fucking know what else is valuable, sweetheart? Ammo. Cars. _Gas_. _That’s_ the shit it takes to keep the world spinning these days.”

“ _Don’t_ fucking bullshit me.” Your words are harsher than you expect as you look up. “Ammo and gas aren’t food for walkers — _people_ are what keep the world spinning and the fucking few that are still alive are worth protecting.” You give a helpless shrug of your shoulders. “Besides— _hell_ —I’d find a way to pay back any ammo, gas, fucking _anything_ that I use — I’m not looking for a goddamn handout, I just need a little help.”

“And what if I say no?” Negan asks, watching you with a considering look you can’t quite parse, “because let’s be fucking honest here, sweetheart — that _is_ the way the fucking wind is blowing. What if I say ‘no’ and tell you to get the fucking hell out of my office?”

“Then I’ll go anyway,” you say, tone resigned but unsurprised, “on foot. I’ll run all goddamn night if I have to, pray I’m headed in the direction, try to catch up to him before something happens.”

“And _that_ isn’t a fucking surefire way to get yourself fucking killed?” Negan asks, skepticism and disbelief painted over his face. “You _honestly_ think if you go down that route, you’ll even live to see the fucking sunrise?”

“ _Fuck you_ — I have to do _something_.”

“It’s fucking _moronic_ is what it is,” Negan says, giving you a disappointed, almost contemptuous look, “and here I thought you were smarter than that, sweetheart.”

“To be incredibly fucking clear _,_ I _didn’t_ come here because I wanted your goddamn opinion, but because I thought you might be able to do me a favor. That’s _it_. With a gun and the car, I have a halfway-decent chance of finding Chase and bringing him back, but fucking with or without you, I am _going_.” For a moment, you can’t quite stomach your own audaciousness — have to take a few breaths to slow the rapid beating of your heart because _how_ is it that every time you find yourself in front of Negan, you manage to fuck up even worse than before? And since you’re sure you _must_ have burned every bridge you had left, torched any hope of Negan _ever_ considering doing _anything_ for you, you make a move to stand — because it’s looking like you’re going to be heading out after Chase on foot and you’re realizing with a painful sense of clarity that you can’t afford to waste any more time.

But just as your hands are sliding free of their hold on the seat, legs tensing as you rise, you hear Negan let out a slight laugh, the sound stopping you in your tracks.

“I say we’re fucking done yet, sweetheart?” He asks, infusing his words with that _infuriating_ commanding tone that always manages to keep you rooted in place. “You hear me say fucking _anything_ about you being free to go? Sit the fuck down.”

“What else—“

“Sit. The. Fuck. Down.”

And you comply — if reluctant, confused, anxious. Feel yourself sink lightly back onto the leather, toes shifting inside your boots, perched on the edge of the seat like you’re getting ready to seize any chance you see to run.

“Fucking better.” Negan says as he watched your hands settle uncomfortably back onto the armrests. “ _Now_ — you say you’re not looking for a handout, just a fucking favor. Am I understanding that right, sweetheart?”

You nod, slight and hesitant and somewhat stiff, unsure where he might be going with this.

“And favors typically imply a little fucking quid pro quo, don’t they? So fucking tell me this, sweetheart — I say yes, the fuck am I getting in return?”

And you don’t know what to say to that, can’t even really process the implications of the question. Maybe a part of you recognized that asking Negan for a favor would mean putting yourself in his debt, but now, faced with that very real prospect, you’ve no goddamn _clue_ how to react.

“I don’t know,” you say, slow and unsure, “what is it that you want?”

From the look that slowly crosses his face—intrigued and suggestive and unnerving enough to burn that blush back into your cheeks—you realize too late you maybe should have phrased your answer differently. But now Negan is giving you that Cheshire cat grin—the kind that says nothing and implies everything—and you had no _idea_ you could feel so unsettled from a look alone.

“Fucking careful making that kind of promise, sweetheart,” he says after a beat, still smiling. “How about you tell me what it is you fucking have to offer.”

“Shit,” you say with an absent shake of your head, “ _fuck —_ I’m not sure. I guess…hell, I guess I’d have to owe you one.”

Negan raises an eyebrow, looking you over with a kind of cagey interest that’s fairly fucking far from reassuring. “You offering me a carte blanche favor, sweetheart? You _really_ think that’s a fucking good idea?”

And you can’t help but let out a slight laugh at that. “ _No_ — no, in fact, I am pretty goddamn certain that it is a _terrible_ idea.” You shake your head, shoulders shrugging helplessly. “But I don’t have anything else to offer. And I wouldn’t _be here_ if I had any other options.” 

There’s a silence that persists after your last words, one that’s heavy and complete and that you’re not brave enough to break. So you wait, patiently, feeling an anxious film of sweat in the creases of your palms and a pit drilled into your stomach as you bite your tongue waiting on Negan’s response. Then, just as you’re getting ready to say something— _anything_ —Negan clears his throat, forearms resting on the desk as he shifts forward in his seat.

Shit. _Fuck_.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he says after a pause, fingers tapping against the surface of the desk, “you want my help? Pack whatever shit you want or need for this little fucking venture and meet me down at the garage in twenty.”

Your brow creases, confusion etching a line into your forehead. “Is that— _hell—_ are you saying ‘yes’?”

“Here’s the deal — in return for a favor—consisting of _whatever_ the fuck I want, to be cashed in _whenever_ the fuck I want—I’ll lend you a gun and a car for three days.” Negan leans forward slightly, except now he’s got a look on his face that promises he knows something you don’t and _goddammit_ that _can’t_ mean anything good. “But I have one fucking _nonnegotiable_ condition of my own.

“I’m going with you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so (after too long) I give you all a new chapter that comes with something of a cliffhanger (sort of? ish?? I mean, it's not a very dramatic cliffhanger, but still)
> 
> once again, my immeasurable thanks//gratitude to TheBannedAuthor for helping to beta this chapter -- I've said it before and I'll say it again, your comments and insight help more than I can say and I am always grateful for your time and attention looking over these chapters ( they also absolutely get all the credit for the moment when Negan is taking practice swings with Lucille behind the Reader/OC - it works _so well_ in that moment and I sure as shit wouldn't have come up with the idea on my own so thank you thank you _thank you_ )
> 
> also, as always, thanks for reading/commenting/kudos...ing (?) - hope you guys like the new turn of events and I hope you are as excited as I am to see what happens next!


	13. Chapter 13

“Is that a goddamn _joke_?”

“I look like I’m fucking laughing?”

Negan still has his eyes trained on you, but you can’t read any hint of humor hiding in the lines of his face, can’t find some punchline waiting behind his deadpan expression.

You hope his poker face is just that good, that the other shoe will drop any second.

But you don’t hold your breath.

After another beat, you relent, unable to hold the silence any longer. “But why—god, _why_ —would you want to come?”

“Didn’t say fucking jack about _wanting_ _to_ , sweetheart — said I was _going to_.” His expression holds, his impassive look unchanged. “Fucking _world_ of difference between ‘em.”

You shake your head slightly in frustration, trying to marshal your knee-jerk reaction of _shit, fuck_ into something resembling a coherent argument. “If that’s how you want to phrase it, _fine_. My question still stands — why?” You drum your fingers against the chair, mouth set in an unyielding line. “It’s not…I mean, that’s not to say — _fuck._ ” You’re sure Negan can read the impatience in the set of your shoulders, can practically feel his amusement in the air as you stumble over your words. “Look, it’s not that I don’t appreciate the offer, but I can take care of myself _just fine_ out there.” Breathe. _Breathe_. “I just need the gun and the car — I don’t need _you_.”

“Fucking cuts me to the quick, sweetheart.” Negan says, mock offense painted in caricature strokes over his face. His expression resettles back into its infuriating neutrality and you can’t help but be painfully aware of the difference between his unbreakable composure and your own barely-controlled nerves. “Am I the fucking deal-breaker? You saying no?”

“No, that’s not—“ A slight exhale escapes your lips. “I’m just…looking for a little clarification. It seems fairly goddamn obvious that you don’t give a shit about Chase, and you yourself made it clear that you’re not doing this because you _want_ to.” Your boots tap an irritated rhythm against the carpet. “Besides, it’s not as if I need a fucking _babysitter_ out there. So, why?”

Negan just smiles, enigmatic and unfathomable. “You’re still interested in taking the deal, I’ll fucking spell it out for you in the car.”

And you want to keep fighting, want to hold your ground until you get a real goddamn answer. You want an explanation that might allow this murky situation to make some fucking sense, some key that will shift all the scattered and upended puzzle pieces into place. 

But you can’t help but notice the light dimming outside the window, remember that this isn’t about you but about Chase and you can’t afford to waste any more time. You also don’t doubt that with Negan, nonnegotiable _means_ nonnegotiable, and much as you might hate it, you can’t afford to say no to his help.

“ _Fine_.” You finally manage to get out between your gritted teeth. “The garage, twenty minutes.” You answer the amused grin on Negan’s face with a humorless smile of your own. “See you there.” With one last shake of your head, you stand, easing your way past the chairs and moving towards the door across the room.

“Don’t forget about my favor, sweetheart.” Negan calls after you as you pull the door open. “Fucking know I won’t.”

_Hell —_ as if you could.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t until you’re back in the stairwell that you notice your hands shaking, realize that nerves or anxiety or anger or— _fuck—_ whatever it is has stuttered your breathing into something shallow and uneven. You’d expected that he’d say no — _that_ you’d been prepared for. You hadn’t anticipated his consideration, let alone a counter-offer.

You’d _never_ have imagined he’d throw himself into the deal.

“Fucking _nonnegotiable_ , my ass.” You say under your breath into the quiet, words joining the slight echo of your boot heels skipping lightly down the steps. As you near the third-floor landing, the ambient nose from the end-of-day rhythms at the Sanctuary starts to filter a little louder into the stairwell, the sound so at odds from the silence you’ve just experienced. 

It’s all too loud, too _much_ — grating against your already frayed and tired nerves.

Just get your bag, get your shit, get out. That’s all you have to do.

Take this one step at a time.

As quickly as you can, you ease past the crowds in the hall down to your own dorm, door already slightly ajar. You can hear Molly and Dana’s voices before you even walk inside, offer them little more than a nonverbal acknowledgment before grabbing your backpack from where you keep it slung over one of the bedposts. You don’t own much and it doesn’t take long to throw in a change of clothes, double-check that your matches, toothbrush, water bottle are all where you left them. Throw on your jacket, lace your boots a little tighter around your ankles. 

“Going somewhere?” Molly asks from her bunk, eyebrows raised in slight curiosity, tone as dry and detached as always.

“Just out, for a few days.” You answer over your shoulder, ignoring whatever look she is—undoubtedly—exchanging with Dana. “Some personal shit that—fucking _of course_ —decided to hit the fan today.”

“You alright?” Dana asks, concern in her words.

“As I ever am.” You say, taking a moment to offer a smile that’s meant to be reassuring. From the way her brows pull together, you don’t think you succeed.

“You know it’s already almost dark, yeah?” Molly shifts so her feet are hanging off the edge of the bunk, knees bent over the railing. She drops the deadpan look she usually wears just for a moment, just long enough for you to catch a hint of anxiety in her expression. “This _really_ feels like a good idea to you?”

It’s the second time in the past half-hour someone’s asked you that.

You wish they’d stop.

“It feels like the best one I’ve got.” Which, no, isn’t _really_  an answer — but it’s also all you have to offer. You finish zipping closed the pouches, check the holster holding your knife is tightly secured to your belt. “It’ll be fine — _I’ll_ be fine.” You shrug your shoulders through the straps, feel the weight settle against your back. “See you in a couple days.”

“Just try not to get yourself killed out there.” Molly calls out as you leave, her last words slipping through the crack in the door as you pull it shut behind you. “Much as I like being proved right, I can’t get any satisfaction from it if it means you’re dead.”

 

* * *

 

By the time you descend the last few flights to the factory floor, the large space has mostly emptied, save for a handful of other Sanctuary members scattered around the picnic tables. It feels like a lifetime ago that you were pacing nervously up and down the aisles, scanning through dozens of faces to find one that belonged to Chase.

Feels like it’s been days since you’d slumped to the floor in that hallway and made the decision to turn to Negan for help.

It doesn’t take long for you to cross the main floor, weaving your way through the tables to a side door that lets out into the yards. As you reach the door, you pause — fingers wrapped tight around the straps of your backpack, thumbs tracing anxious lines over the fabric. There’s no going back from this, really. You’d be nothing less than naive to assume you can walk away from this trip without a few new scars.

But backing down isn’t an option, isn’t in your blood. Forcing your hands to break their grip on the straps, you open the door and head outside.

It’s darker than you’d expected outside—than you’d hoped—most of the buildings having faded to dim shadows in the waning light. Across the grounds, you catch sight of the two-story warehouse repurposed into the Sanctuary’s garage, a few cars still waiting on repairs parked alongside. The distance between the two buildings looks a lot farther than you know it to be, the space stretching to something interminable.

So maybe you push yourself to walk a little faster than usual, to move just quick enough that you don’t allow your muscles the chance to freeze with fear. 

You can’t tell if it’s what’s waiting in the garage— _who_ is waiting in the garage—that you’re afraid of. Can’t decide if you would’ve been more afraid to do this alone.

_Breathe_.

You’re sure he’d have heard your footsteps approaching outside, couldn’t have mistaken the sound of you fumbling with the latch at the door. So he doesn’t look surprised to see you, when you walk inside. Just stares at you with that expression of faint amusement you’re more familiar with than you want to be. When you catch sight of him, he’s leaning against the driver’s side of a four-door Ford sedan with a bag at his feet, his leather jacket catching the light from the flickering electric lamps. Lucille in one hand, gun in the other.

“All set, sweetheart?”

You don’t answer as you cross the pavement, offer him little more than a brief and steady look as you make your over to the Ford. Pull open the passenger side door, slide your backpack off your shoulders, drop it to the space at your feet.

“Disappointed I showed up?” You ask, tossing the question at him without looking his way.

“Far fucking from it. Couldn’t collect on our deal if you hadn't.” Negan smiles, pushing off from the driver’s side door and turning to face you. You’re waiting with one hand resting on the top of the open passenger door, the thin edge of glass cool and biting against the skin of your palm.

“First things first.” Negan says, holding up the gun before offering it over the roof of the car. He watches your hands close tentatively around the metal, making a point of avoiding contact with his own calloused fingertips. “Careful with that, sweetheart — wouldn’t want you hurting yourself.”

“I know how to use a gun.”

“Guess we’ll have to see about that.” You grit your teeth against the insult as he tosses his bag in the backseat, lays Lucille down with an almost reverential level of care. Gun in hand, you duck down into the passenger seat, adjusting your feet around the bulk of your backpack and fastening the seatbelt across your chest. After a beat, Negan takes his place in the seat next to you, his elbow landing too-close to yours on the armrest, brushing against the fabric of your jacket.

It doesn’t even last for a moment, doesn't mean anything significant— _fuck_ —it’s less than  _nothing_. So there is _no reason_ for your breath to hitch the way that it does at that brief flash of contact. 

You resolutely ignore any implications of your reaction. You hope and _pray_ that Negan missed it, too. Thank any god you can think of that it’s too dark for him to see the low flush in your cheeks as you realize just how _small_ the space of the car is, that you’ve bargained yourself into a position demanding such close proximity for the next three days.

Settle your hands on your knees and take a breath. Dig your fingers into the denim just hard enough to restore your focus.

“Nervous, sweetheart?”

The low rumble of his voice feels too loud in the space and you swear you can feel it thrumming against your skin as you catch his smile in your periphery. You don’t need to see the amusement spelled out clearly in his expression to know that he’s noted your every muscle twitch and uneven breath.

Lie to yourself. Say it’s fear—not him—that’s got you feeling this edgy. The awareness of all the things that can go wrong. How rare it is for things to go right.  _That's_ all this is.

It isn’t convincing, but you’ll take what you can get.

“Hardly.” You say, tone full of steel and eyes uncompromising.

Besides—for the sake of your own goddamn pride— _fuck_ letting him see how much he affects you. 

He just raises one eyebrow in response, shrugging as he turns the car on and heads for the open door on the far wall.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

This is it, isn’t it?

You’re really doing this.

Negan doesn’t say anything else as he steers the car towards the front gate, a few of his men waiting on guard at the top of the wall, looking down curiously at the sedan rolling slowly towards them. With hesitant but practiced motions, they descend from their posts as Negan pulls the car to a stop in front of the reinforced chainlink, wait while he rolls down the window and lower their heads slightly in submission.

“Sir?”

“Open the gate.” Negan calls from his seat, fingers drumming impatiently against the steering wheel.

“Sorry, sir — I just…” The guard exchanges a quick look with his partner, his eyes flicking briefly to where you sit in the passenger seat. “We didn’t get word of a supply run or mission heading out, tonight—“

“Fucking _excuse me_?”

“I mean—“

“Something I say not fucking clear to you, kid?” Negan says, voice lowering into that register you associate with imperialism and authority and you know firsthand how _petrifying_  it feels to be caught in those crosshairs. You watch the kid— _god,_ he is young—pale even in the dim lighting. Remind yourself not to forget the kind of respect Negan commands. “Were the words ‘open the gate’ too fucking complex? Who the fucking _fuck_ do you fucking _think_ gives you your _fucking orders_?”

“I—“

“Shut the _fuck up_ and _open the fucking gate.”_

With a terrified and jerky shake of his head, the guard stumbles back towards the chainlink, wheeling it open with the help of his partner.

“Like I said, sweetheart,” Negan says as he rolls up the window, edges the car forward. “Incompetent fuckwits — the fucking lot of ‘em.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” You say, voice quiet but steady as the car rolls past the boundary of the walls, your eyes drifting over to the walkers’ scrabbling fingertips a few feet from the windows. “He was just trying to do his job. You didn’t have to—shit— _terrify_ him like that.”

Negan looks over at you, a look of genuine humor on his face. “Yes, sweetheart, I _did_.” He lets out a slight exhale, and in the rearview mirror, you can see the gate rolling closed. “He needed to understand the fucking command structure — I offered an invaluable lesson. Bet your fucking ass he won’t _ever_  fucking doubt  _who_ is in charge around here, again.” You can hear Negan’s smile even in his words. “You could stand to learn a fucking thing or two from that kid.”

“You want me to be afraid of you?”

“That your way of pretending you aren’t?”

You fall silent, shifting in your seat and resting your head against the glass. You’re not sure how to answer Negan’s words—can’t parse how much truth is there and how much isn’t—so you don’t say anything. Let the low rumble of the car lull you into some semblance of peace.

There’s a full moon rising behind the tips of the trees, casting the landscape in a sort of dim and pearly light. On the horizon, you and Negan both catch the lumbering silhouette of a walker shambling slowly through one of the fields.

“No fucking do-overs out here, sweetheart.” Negan says, his voice laced with the kind of seriousness you can’t mistake. “Better be fucking ready for this shit.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Don’t think you’d be sitting here if that were really true.”

And there is no answer to something like that.

Worse, still — you're not sure he’s wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, and it begins! I know this chapter is a little on the shorter side, and really serves as more of a filler than anything else, but I needed to get them from his office to the car and it didn't feel right, starting the road trip mid-chapter.
> 
> (although it's already too much fun having these two in the car together, and I am definitely looking forward to writing the next few chapters)
> 
> thank you all for your incredibly kind words on the last chapter and fingers crossed that you're excited to see where this goes next!


	14. Chapter 14

It’s quiet in the car as the Sanctuary fades to an indistinguishable point in the rearview, silent save for the slight thrum of the motor resonating in your skin, the faint scrape of tire treads against the rough and unpaved road. You haven’t been surrounded by this much open space in over a month, and it’s as much exhilarating as it is nerve-racking. It’s tempting, to roll down the window, feel the chill of the evening air pull at your hair and strum goosebumps from your skin. There’s as much freedom here as there is threat, and you’d almost forgotten how it feels to balance on the edge of this knife blade.

You’re just starting to ease into the kind of waking restfulness you only ever seem to find on car trips when Negan clears his throat beside you, turning to look your way, leaving his left hand to rest on the steering wheel.

“Alright, sweetheart — so where we headed?” He flashes you an easy grin. “Standard road trip rules — person riding shotgun’s in charge of directions.”

“They’re also supposed to handle music,” you say, glancing at him briefly before fixing your eyes back on the dimming road, “but I left my apocalypse road trip mixtape at home.” The joke is out of your mouth before you have a chance to wonder if it was a mistake, to consider if this is the kind of environment where levity is allowed. Blame it on the close-quarters of the car, the hypnotizing vista running past the window—whatever the hell it is—that’s got you feeling this disarmed, lowered your guard and eased back your wariness. 

But then you hear his snort of laughter beside you, and since it seems to suggest laughing-with instead of laughing-at, you relax a little in your seat. Fight to keep the hint of your own amused smile behind the even lines of a deadpan expression.

“Fucking shame, sweetheart. Here I was looking forward to judging your taste in music.”

“ _Please_ ,” you say, giving a slight shake of your head, “like you need an excuse to mock me.”

“Mocking? Fuck, sweetheart — I’d never.” You bite back a disbelieving laugh, but can’t help turning to look his way, raising your eyebrows in clear skepticism even if it’s getting too dark for him to notice. “Call it teasing, at worst.” He turns, catching your blatantly unconvinced look and answering with an unapologetic smile of his own. “What can I say, sweetheart? Too much fucking _fun_ watching you blush.”

“I do _not_ —“

“Oh, you most _certainly_ fucking do. Fucking flush of bright pink all across your cheeks.” You fall into a sort of indignant silence as Negan lets out a laugh, rough and full-throated and you’d swear you can feel it vibrating through your bones. It’s the sort of sound you’d come to associate with his derision, with the anticipation of a kick to the stomach or Lucille taken to your skull as a consequence of your thoughtlessness. You only know how to hear his laugh when the air is thick and muggy with tension, when the look on his face is unreadable and somehow still manages to promise all the worst conclusions.

You never considered what it might sound like to hear Negan laugh just for the sake of laughing. It’s almost enough to tug a reluctant smile from your expression of mild offense.

Almost.

“Never did say where we’re going, sweetheart.” Negan says, looking over at you a beat or two after his laugh finally tapers off. “You _do_ know where we’re fucking going, don’t you?”

“Back to the town where you first picked up me and my friends — to that same street, even.” You bring one knee up to your chest, lace your fingers around your shin. “As for directions? Unfortunately, I’m not sure how much help I can be, seeing as I was sitting in the back of a truck last time I made the trip.”

“If you’ll fucking recall, I _did_ offer you a seat up front in the cab.”

“Shit, yes, _of course_.” You snort, leaning your head back and tapping your thumbs against your knee. “The condescending proposal of a seat on your lap — fucking _how_ could I have said no to _that_.”

“Well, if you’re regretting what was _clearly_ a missed opportunity—“

“Stop.”

Negan laughs again, his grin bringing out the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, parentheses bracketing the edges of his mouth. The look fits his face better than you expect — better than it should. 

You feel almost guilty as you fight the temptation to smile, as you let yourself enjoy how _easy_ this can be. Have to remind yourself that this moment isn’t the standard but an abnormality — that your relationship with Negan consists of threats and insults and tension. There isn’t supposed to be a place for the relaxed back-and-forth of easy banter.

He’s the asshole who takes pleasure in making your life hell — he’s not supposed to be someone who makes you _laugh_.

You’re so busy trying to rationalize your emotions, to reshape your feelings into the level of dislike and contempt you’re supposed to have for Negan that you almost miss his next words.

“What makes you so fucking sure that this is the right direction? How do you know _that’s_ where your friend’s headed?” The question doesn’t sound like he means it as a way of trying to undermine you, but you’re still somewhat cautious as you answer, tired of being consistently caught off-guard.

“Because the only way I can even _begin_ to rationalize Chase taking off the way he did is grief.” That seems to catch Negan’s eye, but it doesn’t surprise you. Fucking _everybody_ has somebody they’ve lost. You never assumed he was an exception. “That street is where his girlfriend died. And, considering what happened just _after,_ that’s where her body still is.“ _Given the power play you pulled with your fucking kneel and say ‘thank you’ bullshit_ are the words you choose to leave unsaid. “He hasn’t been the same since she died—not that I blame him, _fuck_ , I get it—and I can only imagine that he wants to bury her. Pay his respects somehow. Fucking something _more_ to honor the woman he loved than just leaving her to rot in the street.”

But Negan doesn’t miss the subtle allusion to his actions, and you didn’t really expect him too. You know him better than that, by now.

“You blaming _me_ for not getting your fucking funeral?”

“Didn’t say that.” Even if it had been implied. “ _However_ , calling him a ‘goddamn fucking pussy’ while he was cradling her dead body _did_ seem like an odd way to acknowledge his grief.”

“Well next time I’ll be sure to bring a fucking casserole — better?”

You turn to face him, but before you have a chance to respond you see him frown slightly, brows drawn together and fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “How do you know this isn’t just a fucking errand or some shit? Run out, bury the dead girl, sing her praises or fucking whatever, run on home. You sure you aren’t just pulling some fucking mountains out of molehills bullshit?”

“You don’t pack your sheets if you’re leaving on a day trip.” The same thought had occurred to you earlier, somewhere between Chase’s room and the seventh-floor landing. The kind of desperate rationalization you’d chased to avoid needing Negan’s help, one you’d had to dismiss when you reluctantly admitted it didn’t make sense. Your mouth sets in an unbroken line. “You don’t clear out your bunk if you’re planning on coming back. He meant to leave for good, and I need to change his mind.”

“Fuck makes you think you can?”

“Excuse me?”

“There’s a fucking _world_ of real estate between the factory and the front gate. Plenty of fucking time to reconsider a snap judgment, rethink some impulsive whim. And a fucking minefield of walkers chained just outside the walls? No _way_ to mistake the world of shit you’re getting yourself into if you decide to leave.”

You’re probably just touchy—must be exhaustion, anxiety, _whatever_ —that his comments seem to hit a little too-close to home. Tell yourself it’s just nerves, that his words threaten to resonate the way that they do.

“Point being — loverboy must’ve fucking _known_ what he was doing. Fucking waiting ’til your friends had hit the road, planning on leaving first thing in the morning — he didn’t fucking _want_ to be followed. So what makes you think you can change his mind?”

You need a minute—more than that, if you’re being honest—before you can respond. Truth is, you hadn’t considered _any_ of that. Hadn’t considered that Chase’s actions might not have been desperate or impulsive but _calculated_. You’d assumed you just had to reintroduce reason back into the equation, lead Chase to some sense and restore his equilibrium. You figured _finding_ him would be the challenge, never considered that the hardest part might be what follows.

And what if you really _can’t_ change his mind? What if—after all this—he refuses to return with you? What then?

“Fuck. _Fuck_.” Your eyes drop down to the tired and dusty carpet at your feet. “I honestly don’t know.”

Negan pauses as he considers the frank and unguarded look on your face. “Shit — _brilliant_ fucking plan, sweetheart. But still better than you trying to bullshit me.” Exhales, shakes his head. “Doesn’t fucking matter tonight, anyway — we’re stopping soon.”

You pause, his words taking a moment to register. “Wait, what? We’ve _barely_ gotten started _.”_

“It is _pitch-fucking-black_ outside and I couldn’t see a pair of my wife’s tits in front of my fucking _face_ let alone find the fucking road. Even if you’re prepared to get yourself killed for loverboy, fucking _nowhere_ did I agree to the same. We left tonight because you were that fucking hellbent on going, but we can’t get jack _shit_ accomplished in the dark and dying in a fucking car wreck because I _can’t see shit_ is fucking _not_ how I plan on going, get me?” 

Arguing with him has become an impulse more than anything else, but you do understand his point. Headlights would be an invitation to get killed and your own impatience isn’t worth such basic recklessness. 

“Now, we’ve got a safe house that the Saviors keep clear, maybe another mile or two up the road. We’ll crash there for the night and can head out first thing in the morning.” Negan glances over at you. “Got a fucking problem with any of that, sweetheart? You gonna keep arguing since you _clearly_ get such a fucking kick out of it?”

“What can I say, _sir_? Too much fucking _fun_ being a thorn in your side.”

And when you see the look he gives you when you turn his own words around on him, you don’t even bother trying to hide your smile.

“Anyway,” you say after a beat, your grin faded back to faint amusement drawn into your expression, “to answer your question — no, I don’t have a problem with stopping early. I don’t fucking _like it_ , but—yes, _fine_ —I see your point.”

“Fucking _good_. And—hey, tell you what—since I’m feeling _extra_ fucking fair right now, I won’t count tonight as part of your three-day rental on the gun and the car.”

“How gallant.”

“I am the very fucking picture of chivalry.” 

And if Negan hears the slight exhale you give at his words—air escaping from behind your teeth touched with more than a little laughter—he chooses not to say anything. 

But it’s hard not to notice that there was a time when that kind of impertinence would’ve earned you a fist to the cheek, bought you scars from the scalding burns of his anger. Not so long ago, you’d made that same half-laugh on your knees in the street and could’ve sworn you heard the world come to a stop.

You can’t tell if it’s frightening, unnerving, relieving, that some things appear to have changed.

After another beat of silence, of you shifting slightly in your seat, the leather tips of his gloved hand tapping against the steering wheel, you turn to look at him. “So we’ve still got some time left in the car before we stop, yeah?” 

“That’s right.”

“Then now you can tell me why you decided to come.”

“Fuck — you still on about that?”

“It’s not _exactly_ like you ever gave me an answer.” He doesn’t say anything, at first, and you let out a short sigh of frustration. “You said if I was still interested in the deal, you’d explain it to me in the car. Well, I took the deal, didn’t I? And we _are_ in the car, aren’t we?”

“They say patience is a fucking virtue, sweetheart.”

“They also say that the meek shall inherit the earth,” you shoot back, “but unless ‘meek’ is some goddamn 2000-year-old euphemism for ‘zombie’, I’d conclude some sayings are bullshit.” 

He rests one elbow on the armrest, rolls his eyes when he turns and sees the stubborn set of your chin.

“Guess a deal _is_ a fucking deal,” he says, running one hand over his stubble, “fuck—fine—you really wanna know? Here goes.

“You were right—even given your fucking sanctimonious little speeches—I _don’t_ give a single flying fuck about loverboy’s life. But I did have two fucking reasons for why I decided to come along on this merry little fucking jaunt into the countryside. First—and _don’t_ _fucking_ _forget_ _this_ , sweetheart—I have a _vested_ fucking interest in protecting what belongs to me.”

And because you don’t quite know what to make of that, what to do with the way his eyes seem to fix on you, you ask, “Hell is that supposed to mean?”

Negan gives you a slight smile, like he knows how you must have heard his words— the way he must have wanted you to misinterpret them. “My fucking gun, sweetheart. My fucking _car_. Much as you might insist you can take care of yourself out here, sure as shit wasn’t something I wanted to leave to fucking _chance_. This way, I get to ensure first-fucking-hand that my shit is returned undamaged. Besides, I’d let you go alone, the fuck’s to stop you from running off with the gun and the car? You expected me to—fucking, what?— _trust_ that you’d come back before the deadline? Fucking _fuck_ that. Never operated on blind fucking faith, sweetheart — fucking wasn’t about to start then.”

“There’s that gallantry.”

“You wanted your answer, didn’t you? Then shut the fuck up.” Negan looks over, as if waiting to see if you’ve got some other smart-ass comment waiting on your tongue, but you settle for biting the inside of your cheek and inclining your head slightly for him to go on.

“Second — you say you need to go after loverboy ‘cause he’s acting on blind fucking impulse, driven by fucking grief or emotion or fucking whatever, right?”

He waits, and you nod.

“Maybe you’ve got it right about him, maybe you don’t — I don’t fucking give a shit. But you weren’t wrong, when you said that kind of fucked up headspace is what gets a person killed out here. Fucking can’t afford to be anything less than clear-fucking-headed or you’re just _asking_ for today to be your fucking last.

“And seeing you standing in my office—staring me down with white knuckles and that furious fucking spark in your eye—it could not have been _more fucking obvious_ that you were running on that same kind of blind emotion.”

“Wait, _what_ —“

“Fucking deny it if you want—and we both fucking know you _will_ —but it’s true. I’d let you go out alone on this bullshit errand and you _would not_ have come back. Hell, you’d have gotten yourself ripped to fucking pieces before the fucking sunrise.”

“So you think I’m fucking _incompetent_?”

“If that’s what I meant to say, that’s what I would have fucking said. No, sweetheart, I think you’re _upset._ And I _know_ that people who give in to their fucking emotions make _stupid_ fucking decisions. You’re perfectly fucking competent — but you’re _not_ thinking clearly.”

“That’s _such_ _bullshit_.”

“Is it?” You have to look away from the unflinching look Negan gives you, duck your head from that look of impatience and frustration he’s wearing like he’s so goddamn _tired_ of the way you insist on lying to yourself. “Then fucking tell me this, sweetheart — were you planning on driving all fucking night?”

“I mean, not the _whole_ —“

“If I hadn’t set a time limit on this little venture, how fucking long would you have let yourself look for loverboy?”

“I hadn’t really figured—“

“A week? A month? Rest of your fucking life?”

“Well, _no_ , but—“

“What about food? I know how shitty the points are for a maintenance worker—I fucking _designed it_ that way—and I _know_ you can’t have much—if fucking _anything_ —squirreled away. The fuck would you have done for food?”

“I _can_ fend for myself out here.”

“Yeah, fucking of _course_.” You can see his goddamn eye roll clear across the car. “‘Cause the real reason you agreed to live at the Sanctuary is because you were falling asleep every night with a full fucking stomach.”

“ _Fuck you_.”

“You offering, sweetheart?”

Grit your teeth. Bite your tongue. Fucking _stay calm_. 

Your’ve wrapped your fingers around the edge of the seat at some point, nails digging into the cushion as you fight to hang onto some semblance of composure.

Breathe. Breathe. Fucking _breathe_.

“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” Negan’s voice is relentlessly even, his tone unchanged despite the anger that’s suffused your words, the way they’ve been colored by frustration. “Or is some sense finally starting to sink in through that stubborn fucking skull of yours?”

Breathe. _Breathe_.

“Why not send somebody else?”

“Fucking excuse me?”

You let out another slow breath, opening your eyes without realizing you’ve screwed them shut somewhere along the way. You don’t look to your left, instead, release your rigor mortis grip on the seat cushion, flex your fingers to bring blood flow back to your white-knuckled joints.

“You don’t trust me to take care of your shit, don’t trust me to bring it back at all, don’t even trust me not to fucking _die_ — fuck, fine, _whatever_. Underlying point, you don’t want me out here by myself. Ignoring that bullshit—because it _is_ bullshit—you could’ve picked _any_ poor fucker to be my goddamn babysitter. You wanted somebody here, but that somebody didn’t have to be _you_. So _why not send somebody else?_ ”

There’s a pause after your words that you don’t expect, one that lasts long enough for you to turn your head in curiosity and see if you might be able to parse Negan’s thoughts through his expression.

You don’t expect it, when the first thing you read on his face is surprise. Like he honestly hadn’t considered sending somebody else with you. Like the thought was too foreign, too pointless, too… _something_ it wasn’t even worth having. 

But then his expression is clear, smoothed back into his usual mask, and you look away like you’re embarrassed he’ll catch you staring.

“Fuck does it matter at this point anyway, sweetheart?” Negan finally responds, a gruffness in histone that hasn’t been present since the drive started. An absence you’re only noticing at its return. “Unless you want me to turn this fucking car around and drive back, you’re fucking _stuck_ with me.” He looks over, a hard set to the lines of his face — like he’s almost _daring you_ to challenge or contradict him.

But today's been taxing, even by this new world’s standards, and you are feeling so, so _tired_. You hadn’t been looking for a fight when you’d asked him why he’d decided to come, and you don’t want to start another one now. So instead you sink back into your seat, prop your feet up on the dashboard, ignore the look Negan gives you at the dusty imprints your soles leave behind.

God — you just want to _sleep_.

Whatever’s going on in Negan’s head now—and, fuck, you won’t even _bother_ trying to find out—he seems to take your silence as a kind of tacit white flag, falling into a similar quiet so the only sounds are that of the car and the faint environmental ambiance that filters through the window.

You turn your head until you can’t see him, rest your forehead against the glass. Wonder how you went from waking up at the Sanctuary this morning— _fuck_ , was that only this morning?—to ending up here.

After another few minutes, Negan pulls off the main road into the trees, down a side trail you’d hardly have noticed in the daylight and _never_ would’ve found in the dark. You can see the occasional silhouette of a walker lumbering through the trees, but the road itself seems to be kept relatively maintained and it’s a blessedly uneventful drive to the simple one-story cabin at the end of the lane. With a kind of practiced ease, Negan follows the ruts of well-worn tire treads up to a cleared patch of land alongside the house that functions as a driveway, parking the car and letting out a low sigh as he pulls the keys from the ignition.

“The house and surrounding area are usually cleared out every few weeks, but still, stay on your fucking toes until we’re settled inside. ‘Specially considering how fucking _dark_ it is.”

“So…use common goddamn sense?”

“Fucking exactly, sweetheart. Think you can manage?”

You don’t bother responding as Negan fishes Lucille from the backseat, as you grab your own backpack from the floor. You tuck the borrowed gun into the waist of your jeans in favor of the knife you keep at your belt, fingers wrapped comfortably around the hilt as you let yourself out of the car into the still night air, listening carefully for the telltale rustle of a walker between the trees.

“There’s another bag of food and supplies in the trunk,” Negan says from behind you, voice low, Lucille in one hand and his own duffle hoisted over one shoulder. “Can you get it or would you like me to grow a third fucking hand?”

“Pretty sure you’d love that,” you say, quieting your voice to the same level as his as you walk back to the trunk. “Think how much easier that’d make it for you to jerk off.”

You can hear branches cracking from somewhere near you as you’re grabbing the supplies from the back, ease the trunk closed quickly but quietly and grip your knife a little tighter as your eyes skate back-and-forth over the clearing. But then there’s a kind of sickening _crunch_ and from somewhere to the left you see a pulpy mass of chipped bone and rotting brain blow back into the trees, the remains of the body crumbling to the forest floor and Negan standing over the bloody Pollack like a batter who’s just hit a triple.

“Sweetheart, I have _five wives_ waiting for me back at my apartments in the Sanctuary,” he says with a kind of amused patience, talking to you like an elementary school teacher as he shakes the larger pieces of loose gristle and skin from Lucille’s barbs. “Getting off has never exactly been a _problem_.”

Rationally, you know it’s too dark for him to notice the slight flush that spreads across your cheeks, but the goddamn bastard just grins at you like he _knows_ it’s there, anyway. Throwing the duffle he’d dropped back over his shoulder, he tilts his head in the direction of the cabin, and you follow him around the car to the short series of steps that leads up to a small porch and the front door. You watch Negan open the combination padlock keeping the door latched and shoulder open the slightly warped wood before following his lead inside.

It’s too dark to see much of anything, at first, and it takes you a beat to realize that all the windows have been boarded over. Negan pulls a small flashlight from the side pocket of his bag, the narrow beam casting a thin sliver of illumination over the cabin’s interior. It’s not enough to pick out your surroundings in any level of detail, just allowing you to make out the rough shape of a room doubling as den and kitchen — a row of cabinets and an old gas stove set along one wall behind the outline of a dining table and chairs, the dimensions of a couch and armchair oriented towards a low fireplace. Once you’re over the threshold, Negan shuts the door behind you, dropping a few deadbolts into place. 

“Beds are back this way,” he says once the front door’s locked, leading you towards a doorway set into the far wall. With practiced steps across the room, he takes a lighter from his back pocket and ignites a gas lamp sitting on a small table against the wall, the warm luminescence pushing back the shadows and casting the space in a hazy glow. With the windows boarded tightly shut, you know there’s no chance of the light escaping into the woods and acting like a beacon for whoever—or whatever—might be wandering through the trees. Still, it takes you a minute, before you can relax enough to properly take in the space around you.

It’s small, but there’s no denying that the room is sort of—fuck— _cozy_. From the door, you’re facing two twin beds, one pushed into either corner with a low bureau sandwiched between them, the gas lamp resting on its surface. A faded rug runs the hardwood floor beneath the beds, ending just shy ofthe horizontal planks that make up the walls. The whole thing is surprisingly free of bloodstains, of viscera, of grime in general — and it surprises you, how well-maintained the place looks. That there are honest-to-god pillowcases on the beds and plaid coverlets tucked in neatly over the sheets. Like this is somewhere you’d go on holiday, rather than a refuge at the end of the world.

Once the lamp is lit, Negan tosses his duffle onto the bed on the left, leaning Lucille against the bedpost as he clicks off the flashlight and sinks down on the mattress.

“Homey.” You say, dropping the supplies bag down next to the door and tossing your backpack over to the other bed.

Negan looks up at where you’re still standing in the doorway, lets out a slight snort. “Fuck were you expecting?”

“Something that looks a little less like it belongs in the pages of a Lands’ End catalogue.” You answer with a wry smile, giving up your purchase on the doorframe and crossing over to take a seat mirroring his on your bed. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Negan gives a slight smile at that, as he stands and shrugs out of his leather jacket, hanging it over a hook on the back of the door. It’s unsettling, almost, to see the layer he wears beneath his armor — the plain white tee that feels like it should be too simple for him, that hangs across his broad shoulders and drapes over the muscles in his back in a way that fits him just right.

“Did you ever eat dinner?” The question pulls you back to the moment, buying you the time to catch yourself staring and shift your eyes away before Negan turns around. It’s just a surprise, to see the defined lines of muscles in his arms and back you’ve never noticed before, the way they shift under the fabric of his shirt — that’s the only reason it’s caught your eye.

For fuck's sake — it’s got goddamn _nothing_ to do with _him_. 

Then, a beat too late, you remember he’d posed a question to you.

“Pardon?”

Negan takes his seat back on the mattress, kicking off his boots and stowing them neatly under the bed near where Lucille rests. “Dinner.” He says slowly. “Did you have any?” Loosening the leather one fingertip at a time, he slides his hand out of the glove he wears and drops it on the bureau next to the lamp. “You showed up at my office when dinner’s usually wrapping up, but something fucking tells me that’s not where you were coming from.”

“Well, no, but I’m fine—“

“Eat. There’s food in the supplies bag.” And since his tone doesn’t leave any room for argument—and, if you’re being honest with yourself, you’re fucking _starving_ —you leave it alone, instead digging through the duffle for a granola bar and some dried fruit. After you’re done, washed the small but filling meal down with a few swigs from your water bottle, Negan pulls himself back to his feet, one hand absently massaging the back of his neck.

“Seeing as I drove while you got to put your feet up, you’re taking first watch. This area’s usually pretty quiet but I’m not a fucking fan of taking chances.” Without checking to see if you’re following him, Negan heads out of the room and back into the den, you just a couple steps behind. With his flashlight, he shows you the small spy holes discreetly cut into each of the four walls, that between them, you’ll be able to keep on eye on the entire clearing from the relative warmth and safety of the cabin. Leaving the flashlight in your hands, Negan pads back to the bedroom and falls onto the coverlet, head hitting the pillow as he lets out a sigh.

“Wake me if there’s trouble. If not, we’ll switch off in a couple hours.”

It catches you off guard, for a moment, to see him laying there so at-ease and unconcerned.

“Aren’t you worried?”

“About fucking what?”

“That—shit, I don’t know—I’ll strangle you in your sleep, or something?”

Negan props himself up on one elbow, looks at you with a kind of amused exasperation. “Well,” he says slowly, “given that you have both a gun _and_ a knife, I’d be a _little_ worried if strangulation was the method you decided to go with. Much less reliable, sweetheart — you’re smarter than that.”

“Dammit, you _know_ what I meant.” You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling at the way Negan’s looking at you.

“You want to know if I’m worried about you killing me in my sleep? No, sweetheart, I’m not worried.”

“But I could—“

“Yeah, you _could_ , but you _won’t_.” He drops back down to the pillow, lets his eyes fall shut. “It’s cute, sweetheart, that you’re so concerned for my safety—“

“That’s _not_ —“

“—but give me a _little_ fucking credit. If I couldn’t read a threat like that coming, I don’t fucking _deserve_ to be in command. Now, you’re more than fucking welcome to prove me wrong if you’d like — after all, we both fucking know how much you _love_ contradicting me.” He shifts a little on the mattress, rests one arm under his head. “Given the choices, I’d prefer the gun over the knife — hell of a lot faster, for one. But it’s also slightly less practical and you should save your bullets, so I get it if you go with the knife.” You can see him smiling, even from where you’re standing in the frame. “You don’t seem the kind for torture, so try and make it a clean fucking cut. And if you wouldn’t mind taking care of my brain while you’re at it, sweetheart, that’d be fucking lovely.”

“You’re an ass.”

“So I’ve heard. Now, unless there’s a fucking immediate threat to my life and limb—excluding the _deadly_ fucking assassin right in front of me—I don’t want to hear anything else until it’s time to switch shifts. Understand?”

“Yeah, yeah,” you say, indulging in a reluctant smile now that his eyes are shut. Pushing off from the doorframe, knife at your belt and flashlight in one hand, you pull the bedroom door shut behind you and tiptoe back out into the den.

You’re a little less tired, a little more alert, after having eaten, but you know you still have a long couple hours ahead of you. With the thin beam of the flashlight as your guide, you take a seat at one of the chairs surrounding the dining table, taking a moment to rub the knots from the back of your neck before beginning your first circuit between the four posts to keep an eye on the woods outside. 

It’s a slow night, but you know that’s not a bad thing, considering the alternative. And as dull as it is, you’re thankful for the modicum of movement around the room that the job demands, your stiffening muscles working just enough to keep you from drifting off. Occasionally, you catch the rustle of something stumbling through the underbrush, but you’re secure enough in the cabin that no lone walker presents a threat, and you just wait silently for them to pass.

As you’re making another round, the flashlight casting sharp and distorted shadows on the hardwood, your mind starts to wander to tomorrow — to what you might find on the street where this whole goddamn chapter of your life began. Whether Wendy’s body is still lying on that stretch of pavement, whether you’ll find Chase somewhere in those streets.

And—god— _Chase_. Alone in the den, your thoughts too loud for the silence, it’s impossible not to replay all the things Negan said in the car. That Chase left because he wanted to leave. That he didn’t want to be followed. That he won’t want to come back. 

You _hate_ that there’s a part of you that thinks Negan isn’t wrong.

Thing is, it’s not like Chase doesn’t know the facts of the situation. There had to have been a series of conscious and purposeful choices that he made between his dorm and the front gate, that suggests he’s got some kind of a plan — even if it is a dangerous and self-destructive one. 

All you have are your words, to spell out a reminder of the life at the Sanctuary he knowingly chose to leave, the friendships he walked out on without a goodbye. And it’s hard—next to goddamn _impossible_ —not to wonder if your words can really be enough.

Somewhere in the middle of your anxious thoughts, you notice the hours of your shift have elapsed, and you rub exhaustion from your eyes as you tiptoe back to the bedroom. As you pull the door open, you see that at some point during the night, Negan dimmed the gas lamp to a faint glow and slipped underneath the quilted plaid fabric of the covers. Keeping your footfalls light, you cross the room until you’re standing just next to the bed, reach out one hand tentatively to wake him.

“Hey,” you whisper, shaking his shoulder slightly and doing your best to ignore how solid the muscle feels through the fabric of his t-shirt. “Your turn.”

He stirs slowly, looking up at you with a sort of lazy, half-asleep grin that promises some kind of private joke as he pushes back the covers, feels for his boots under the bed. Whatever it is, though—fuck—you’re too tired to care. Wordlessly, you hand off the flashlight, not even managing to kick off your own shoes before you’re falling back onto your bed, eyes closing as your cheek hits the pillow.

“Fuck’s sake, sweetheart,” Negan says from somewhere in front of you, a kind of amused impatience in his voice. “At least do this fucking _properly.”_ Dimly, you can feel his fingertips unlacing your boots and sliding them off your feet, hear the dull _thunk_ as they hit the floor. Then his hands are on your shoulders, and you’re just conscious enough to shift compliantly as he eases your arms out from the sleeves of your jacket, to notice the sounds of his footsteps on the hardwood as he hangs your coat on the back of the door next to his. 

Last thing you remember before you can’t remember anything else is the feel of his arm around you as he lifts you just enough to pull back the blankets, the slight shift of the sheets against your skin, the calloused tips of his fingers drawing the covers up around your chin.

And in the morning, you honestly couldn’t say if the quiet whispering of, “see you in the morning, sweetheart,” and the feel of his thumb brushing a soft line over your shoulder was something that’d actually happened, or just part of a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and it begins! oh man, I had _so_ much fun writing this chapter and I really hope it's as much fun for you all to read. 
> 
> huge, huge, thanks to [TheBannedAuthor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBannedAuthor/pseuds/TheBannedAuthor) for helping to beta this chapter
> 
> and (since I don't think this is something I've ever mentioned) if you want, you can come find me on [tumblr](http://thatsparrow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> as always, thanks for the kudos/comments - they never fail to make my day and I hope you all like where the story goes next!


	15. Chapter 15

“Up and at ‘em, sweetheart. Unless you’ve fucking changed your mind on this bullshit, in which case — fuck, fine by me.”

It takes you a moment to process Negan’s words as you stumble your way into consciousness, limbs still unresponsive and half-asleep as you shift against the sheets of the bedding.

“Time?”

“Quarter after six — just past sunup.”

_Fuck_. Slowly, you blink your eyes open, push back the coverlet and feel a wave of goosebumps shiver down your arms in the post-dawn chill. Once you’ve adjusted to the dim light, woken up enough that you can start to make sense of your surroundings, you catch sight of Negan taking a seat on the other bed, leather jacket on and unzipped.

“Come to your senses and had a fucking change of heart?” He asks, grabbing his boots from under the bed. “Or do you _still_ fucking insist on wasting my time?”

“I don’t _insist_ on you doing jack-fucking-shit.” You say, blinking your eyes open as you swim your legs out from beneath the fabric of comforter, the denim of your jeans cold and stiff against your skin. “In fact, I am fairly goddamn certain that you are free to do whatever the fuck it is you want.” You reach down blindly under the bed, fingers hooking around the strap of your backpack and fumbling for the zipper. “ _I_ am still going, but you are _more_ than goddamn welcome to head back to the Sanctuary, if you’d like.” 

You hear Negan snort as you dig through the open pouch of your bag, fishing out a worn knit sweater and pulling it on over your tee. “Fat fucking chance of that, sweetheart. Think we have firmly fucking established that I’m fucking _not_ letting you do this on your own.”

“Your call.”

“You’re goddamn fucking right it is.” Negan slips on his boots, pulls himself to his feet. “Now, the sooner we get this fucking shit over with, the better. Plan on hitting the road in fifteen.” He looks over at you, one eyebrow raised as you lace your shoes up around your ankles. You glance up, catching his eye and offer a slight nod in understanding.

“Fucking good.” With a lazy stretch, boot heels clicking against the hardwood, Negan’s fingers curve around the strap of his duffle, hoisting it over his shoulder as he makes his way out of the room. And then it’s just you, sitting alone on the bed, knees bent around the edge of the mattress and sweater sleeves rolled up around your wrists. In the silence, it’s hard not to notice how much _smaller_ the room feels without Negan’s presence, how the walls almost seem to compress inwards once they no longer need to accommodate the width of his shoulders and the dimensions of his frame.

After a beat, you follow his lead and ease yourself off the mattress and onto your feet, toes shifting against the wool of your socks. As you stretch your limbs, twist to bring some life back to your tired muscles, you catch sight of the neatly-made covers on Negan’s bed, all clean lines and sharp right angles. It surprises you—not quite lining up with your impression of a man who treads as if the world exists several rungs below his boot soles—but you’re too half-asleep to try and make sense of it, and besides, the implication that you should follow suit is clear enough.

So you take a moment to tuck in the sheets and coverlet in a close imitation of neatness — blanket smoothed down, pillow laid over the plaid, and you’ve got something passable, if not perfect. Then it’s a few steps to the door and you’ve pulled your jacket off the hook, sleeves fitted over the knit of your sweater and collar turned up against the chill on the back of your neck. Supply bag in one hand and backpack looped over your shoulder, you head out into the den. 

Negan’s at the table when you walk into the room, his eyes glancing up briefly when he hears the sound of your boots on the floor. Dropping the supply bag next to the couch, you sink down into one of the armchairs bordering the fireplace, backpack slipped off your shoulders and lowered to your feet. With the laze of half-asleep muscles, you dig through the front pocket for your toothbrush and toothpaste, heading towards the cabin door with toiletries and water bottle in hand.

You blink a few times as you pull open the front door, eyes unaccustomed to even the watery-grey haze of dawn after the dimness of the cabin. With somewhat-tired steps, denim still stiff against your legs, you ease your way down the stairs, skeletal pine needles and fallen pieces of foliage crunching sharply under the soles of your boots. Your eyes flick carefully back-and-forth, but it only takes a moment to confirm your solitude in the clearing, to hear your own measured breathing as the only sound indicative of anything living or dead. And then it’s cap clicked off the toothpaste and mint-blue dye spread in a thin line over the bristles and you’re scrubbing the fuzz of sleep off your teeth. It’s almost too-quiet as the brush skates over your molars, and you’d forgotten how this routine feels when you’re not standing shoulder-to-shoulder with a half-dozen other Sanctuary members in the women’s restroom, their early-morning conversations the soundtrack as you wash foamy spit down the drain.

It’s funny, to realize that you miss it. 

The mint is sharp against your gums as you rinse your mouth with metallic-tasting water, rub the last dregs of sleep from your eyes and lean back against the Lincoln Log walls of the cabin. The curve of the wood is a cushion for your shoulders and there’s a crispness to the air that reminds you of post-rainfall, that chills the skin on your cheeks in just the right way.

Close your eyes. Take a slow breath of air absent the heavy smell of death. It’s not often that you can pretend the atmosphere is still clean.

But then you hear a rustle from somewhere in the distance, and it’s enough to remind you that this new world still has teeth. Pushing off from the wall, you skip back up the steps to the open door, letting your eyes adjust only enough that you can pick out your backpack and the supply bag on the floor by the couch, pull them back over your shoulders. Across the room, Negan’s got his jacket zipped up, tucks whatever the hell he was working on back into the side of his duffel.

“You fucking ready, or what?”

_Maybe. Maybe not_. 

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

With a nod, Negan pulls himself to his feet, and it doesn’t surprise you to see that he already has Lucille close at hand. Leaving the cabin as you found it, you follow him out to the porch where he pauses just long enough to fasten the lock on the front door. There’s a walker starting to fumble it’s way out of the woods at the edge of the clearing, but you’ll be long gone by the time it poses a threat. You dig a makeshift breakfast out of the supply bag before you drop it in the back next to Negan’s duffle, click the trunk of the sedan closed, and move to take your place in the passenger seat. Backpack at your feet, you pull the seatbelt over your chest, ignoring Negan’s eyes on you in your periphery.

“Not too late to head back, sweetheart.” He says as he turns the key, the motor thrumming to life beneath your feet. “Could still turn around and chalk this bullshit up to some impulsive fucking mistake.”

“I could,” you say, peeling back the plastic wrap of the granola bar, “but I won’t.” You pause, meet his stare directly. “This isn’t a mistake.”

“Funny thing about that, sweetheart.” Negan says, putting the car in reverse. “Usually the kind of judgment call you can’t make until it’s too fucking late.”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s quiet in the car as Negan turns back onto the main road, the low sun casting long shadows as it pulls itself steadily higher in the morning sky. You’ve got two granola bar wrappers stuffed into the side pocket of the passenger door and your feet back up on the dash and there’s _nothing_ about this silence that feels easy. At some point in the past few minutes, anxiety whittled a pit into your stomach, and you can’t tell how much of it has to do with Negan’s words and how much of it stems from your own unacknowledged worries.

Tapping an absent rhythm against your knees, you glance over at Negan, his eyes steadfastly pinned on the road ahead.

“Hey,” you say slowly, as the thought occurs to you, “how can you just…do this?”

“Do…fucking what?” Negan asks, tone gruff and eyebrow arched as he looks your way. “Drive a fucking car? Jesus shit, sweetheart — it’s brake left and gas fucking right. Not exactly fucking rocket science.”

You bite back the hint of a smile at his affronted expression, shake your head slightly. “Well, while it is a goddamn relief to hear you know the difference between right and left, _no_ , that’s not _quite_ what I meant.” You tilt your head up to indicates the empty road, the stretching miles of snaking black tarmac. “I’m talking about being out here, leaving the Sanctuary for a few days. How is it you can just do… _that_. Don’t they—shit, I don’t know—need you there, or something?”

Negan’s look shifts into something more akin to amusement. “You worried about the state of my regime, sweetheart?”

“You know there’s a difference between curiosity and concern, right?”

“Funny how both look so similar on you.”

“Oh, that is _such shit—“_

“You want your answer, or not?” Negan interrupts, answering your look of mild offense with an easy smile of his own and _how_ is it that he always seems to know the quickest way under your skin? “Well?”

“ _Fuck,_ fine.” You bite the inside of your cheek, will your expression into something less affected. “Yes, I do.”

“While your concern is _touching_ —“

“It’s _not_ —“

“—the Sanctuary ain’t _nearly_ as fucking fragile as you seem to think it is. From time to time, I’m needed on supply runs or pick-ups at nearby communities or errands that call for my particular fucking skill set.”

“Oh, so now swinging a big stick counts as a skill set?”

“You’re goddamn fucking right it does.” If Negan notices your unconvinced look, he ignores it. “Point fucking _being_ , the Sanctuary doesn’t fucking fall apart soon as I step foot past the gates. There’s a system in place and that system fucking knows how to handle shit when I’m gone.”

“What if there’s an emergency?”

“You planning on starting one, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you say, voice deadpan, “by now the coup should _just_ about be wrapping up. I’m sure we can find a place for you in the new republic.”

“Funny.”

“I thought so.”

Negan glances over at you, and you turn just in time to catch his eye before he looks away.

“Now I believe it’s _my_ fucking turn to ask the questions. So tell me this, sweetheart — you prepared yourself for the worst-case scenario?”

You can feel the pit in your stomach drop a little deeper, Negan’s words chipping at your assurances like a pick-axe.

“What? You mean not finding Chase?”

You don’t meet Negan’s stare as you answer, eyes trained intently on the denim fraying at your knee. But you don’t need to turn your head to envision the look he’s likely giving you, the one that matches the humorless laugh he lets out.

“Cute, but fucking _no_.”

You let out a slight exhale, run your palms over your shins as you look out the windshield. “Yeah, that seemed a little too optimistic for your ‘worst-case scenario’.” You breathe slowly. Pull at the sweater sleeves fallen down around your fingertips. “You want to know if I’ve prepared myself for finding him dead? Finding him on the sidewalk with walkers digging through his intestines? Finding him lurching around the street with half his face missing?” You know Negan’s waiting for your answer, but you don’t have it in you to meet his eyes, and you drop your gaze back down to the dirt dug in around your nail beds.

“Honestly — no. I haven’t. I know I _should._ I know it’s a likely outcome and one I should be ready for, but…” You trail off, eyes drifting up to the trees flashing by like frames on a strip of film reel. “Hell, guess I’m just not up to mourning him until I know he’s gone.”

You chance a look over at Negan at your last words, waiting for the condescending barb you’re _sure_ must be coming. But he doesn’t meet your eyes when you turn his way, no harsh cynicism or cruel remark waiting on his tongue.

“What, you’re not gonna give me shit for how weak that is?”

“Bracing yourself for something so fucking inevitable is just the right fucking call.” Negan says, still not looking your way. “But fucking _nobody_ ever pretended it was _easy_. Grief is an ugly fucking thing, sweetheart, and it’s not like I’ve earned the right to pass judgment on how anyone chooses to handle it.”

And if you notice his knuckles whiten a little around the steering wheel, a slight tension in the set of his jaw, you know better than to mention it.

But still, it’s hard not to wonder, and it’s an effort to keep the question locked behind your teeth.

_Who did you lose_?

 

* * *

 

 

After about an hour in the car, Negan takes a turn off the main road down a slightly smaller side street, the green sign at the corner faded and scratched but still legible.

“Didn't realize how close it was,” you say, tilting your head towards the glass as you watch the sedan curve into the woods, trees flickering past outside the window. You’d been sitting in the passenger seat, too, the last time you made this trip. Feet up on the dash, Luke behind the wheel, and Chase, Marie, and Wendy spread out on the floor in the back of the van. It was just supposed to be a quick trip — sweep the streets, check for supplies, load up and head out.

You look back, and it’s hard not to wonder how your younger self could have fallen into such naivety. To assume things could ever be so simple. Still, you watch the first houses start to blur past, weathered wood of picket fences standing guard around lawns run wild with weeds, and you can’t help but feel a little nostalgic for the life you used to lead.

“World didn’t get any bigger, sweetheart, just ‘cause there ain’t as many living in it.” Negan offers, the words sounding like more of an aside than a judgment.

He’s right, even if it’s a truth you have a hard time accepting.

Soon, the separation between the houses starts to shrink, dark wood shingles butting up against pastel paint, posts of mailboxes every few yards on the fringes of the two-lane road. You know that the strip of downtown isn’t far, maybe another mile further, and you start to feel your anxiety afresh as the distances shrinks. Starting to feel too warm, too enclosed, too _something_ in the confines of the car, you slip out of your jacket and shuck your knitted layer, stuffing the sweater back into the depths of your backpack. As you zip the pouch closed, pull your jacket back over your tee, you notice Negan’s slowed the car now that you can see the occasional walker stumbling across the pavement, crawling across the sidewalk, pressed up against windowpanes.

It’s been a while, since you’ve felt their skin give way beneath the tip of your knife, but it’s not the kind of thing you forget.

A couple blocks from the center of downtown, Negan pulls the car over, parking it behind a battered pick-up on a quiet-looking street.

“Figure we’ll walk the rest of the way from here.” He says, tucking the keys into his pocket. “And take it fucking _slow_. Just the two of us this time and I can’t say I’m a fucking fan of our odds in a fight.”

“Gee, _thanks_.”

“You want my respect? Fucking _earn it_.”

You don’t have an answer to that, settling for a slight roll of your eyes as you ease the passenger door open, gun at your waist, hand hovering near your knife. It’s quiet, as you take your first steps on the sidewalk, the silence interrupted occasionally by a birdcall from overhead, the rustle of crumpled newspaper pages in the gutter. Up ahead, you can see the fallen rag doll shape of a body splayed out on the pavement, and you flex your hands a few times to shake the slight tremor in your fingertips.

Tell yourself it’s too old, too weathered, too decayed, to be Chase.

“We doing this or fucking what?” Negan asks, standing alongside the car with Lucille swinging loosely from one hand.

“Waiting on you.”

“Then let’s go.” With a slight jerk of his head down the road, he turns, his strides long and easy over the tarmac. Jogging to catch up, you fall into step alongside him, watching your two shadows ripple across the pavement. And it’s not as if the width of his shoulders or the way his height outstrips yours is any surprise, but you’re not used to noticing it from this perspective — his frame a figure in your periphery, rather than looking down at you.

It’s different, to be on the same side, for once. And you know you aren’t equals— _far_ fucking from it—but here and now, the silhouettes of your shadows stand side-by-side, and that’s new.

You remind yourself not to get used to it.

A few blocks later, the buildings lining the streets start to look a little more familiar, awnings and storefronts and parked cars echoing in your memory. And then you round the corner, see the plate glass windows across the street of the convenience store where all of this started, and it’s more unnerving than you expected.

This is the place where the paths of your future diverged, and it’s difficult not to feel a little overwhelmed by that. To wonder what might have been.

You have to tread around the bodies of goddamn _dozens_ of walkers as you make your way over to the store, the dead splayed out and cut down in a rough semicircle around the front of the windows. And as you step your way through the minefield of sprawled limbs and rotting viscera, you can’t help but notice the bloody bootprints belonging to the Saviors, replaying the way they’d cut down the mob like it was _nothing_. 

There’s grime smeared across the plate glass and you still remember how it felt, running out that front door to see the dead stacked up several rows deep, back against the windows and knife in your hand. You’d been standing just _here_ , toes of your boots carving out a place on the sidewalk, Chase and Wendy on your left, Marie and Luke on your right.

“Ain’t this a fucking trip down memory lane.”

You turn to see Negan standing a few feet away, and it’s not hard to picture him at the head of the dozen men he’d been leading all those weeks ago, to remember the feel of his fingertips under your chin as he’d compelled you to keep his gaze.

“You going to tell me to get down on my knees and say ‘thank you’ again?”

“Not this time, sweetheart.” Negan says, giving you an easy smile as he takes a few steps closer closer. “Unless you _want to_ , that is.”

“Damn — _tempting_.” You say, tone dry in the face of his suggestive grin. And you can’t help but shake your head at the look he’s giving you, can’t quite suppress the amused smile tugging at the edge of your mouth.

So you turn away, because there’s something a little too knowing in his smile, and—whatever it might mean—it’s nothing you’re really prepared to think about. 

Besides, you’re here for a goddamn _reason_.

As you shift on your toes to face the storefront, your brows draw together slightly as your eyes skate over the sidewalk. And you think you know what it is you’re looking for, some absent variable in the pile of three dead walkers a few feet away on the sidewalk, but it isn’t until you shift them aside with the toe of your boot that you’re sure.

“I’ll be damned.” You say under your breath, crouching down to get a closer look.

“Fuck is it?” Negan asks, and you can hear his footsteps behind you as he draws near.

“Wendy’s body.” You don’t look up as you answer, hands pulling back the shoulders of a few more fallen nearby to double-check. “It’s missing.”

“You sure?”

“Fucking trust me — that moment isn’t a memory I’m likely to forget anytime soon.” You rock back on your heels, biting the inside of the cheek as you consider the area once more. “She was standing right _here_ when she was bit, and it’s not as if she had a chance to make a break for it with three of them on her.” You pull yourself upright, eyes roaming up and down the road. “If her body’s gone, that must mean Chase was here and here _recently_. So, odds are good he’s still in the area.”

“Leaping to an awful lot of conclusions, sweetheart.”

“Such as?”

_“_ Her body’s gone — fucking sure, fine, I’ll take your word on that. Does not fucking mean it was loverboy who moved it.”

You give a dismissive shake of your head, jaw setting slightly. “Fucking who else _would_. The dead? They’ll pick the body apart, sure, but that’s as far as it goes. What, you think another scavenger did it? A fucking _bear_?”

“I don’t _know_ , sweetheart. That’s the fucking _point_.” The look Negan’s giving you is patently unconvinced and _hell with him_ for his inability to admit that you’ve got a point. After a beat, he gives a concessive shrug, readjusting his grip on Lucille. “Alright, _fine_. For the sake of _argument_ , let’s say it was loverboy. Fuck makes you think he’s still in the area? How do you know he didn’t beat us here, bury the girl, and then hit the fucking road?”

“He was on foot—“

“Far as you know. Couldn’t have picked up a car or a bike or fucking roller blades between the Sanctuary and here?”

“—and he would’ve stopped for the night—“

“So he’s got more fucking sense than you?”

“— _besides_ ,” you spit out through gritted teeth, “it’s not like moving and burying a body is a quick fucking thing. Even if he showed up a while ago, odds are good he’s still close.”

“Yeah, speaking fucking _of_ ,” Negan says, arching his brow, “how the _fuck_ do you propose on _finding him_? This town ain’t big but it sure as shit ain’t _small_ either, and he could’ve buried her body _anywhere_. How’d you think this was gonna work, sweetheart?”

Honestly?

You hadn’t, really. Hadn’t thought much further ahead than the car and the gun and getting back to this spot as fast as you could. And since everything that came before this was so spectacularly improbable, in the back of your mind, you’d just sort of clung to the notion that the ending of this chapter _must_ work itself out. That you’d arrive in town and Chase would just be _there_. That you’d talk and he’d listen and you’d head back together.

But nothing is that simple, no matter how much you might want it to be.

“So are you telling me to give up?” You ask after a beat, matching Negan’s questioning look with one of your own. “Should that be my takeaway from your uplifting goddamn pep talk? That it’s time to call it a day and head on home?”

“Not like I’d object to cutting this fool’s errand short, but _no_ , sweetheart, that’s not what I’m saying.” 

“Then the hell is your _point_?”

“That it’s time to _get fucking smart_.” Negan says, a sharp edge to his words. He takes a step back, lifts up his arms like he’s speaking from a pulpit. “Out here, mistakes get you _killed_. And since this is shit you should already know, it fucking _baffles me_ that you seem to need such constant reminders.

“This is your fucking show, sweetheart, and you lead the way. But caution ain’t the fucking same as cowardice, and being impulsive is usually the _last_ fucking mistake you _ever_ get to make.”

Your first instinct is to spit back a retort, to return his criticisms with barbs of your own. But then you pause, take a breath, wonder if that line of action might not be proving his damn point exactly.

“Okay,” you say, letting out a slight exhale, “so what do you suggest?”

Negan raises his brows at that and you respond with a slightly concessive and consenting shrug.

“Well, sweetheart, since you _asked_ —“ 

“Don’t get used to it.”

“—first thought is that it’s shitting unlikely that loverboy decided to bury his girl somewhere in the middle of town, so I’d say we’re looking at the woods. And it’s not like dead bodies are a fucking picnic to move — fuckers are unwieldy as _fuck.”_

_“_ You speaking from experience?”

“ _Fuck_ no, sweetheart. I have people to handle that shit for me.”

“My mistake.”

“Point being _,”_ Negan continues, “makes the most sense he’d have buried her somewhere close. If it was me, I’d say take the fastest route out of town into the woods and start looking there. Can cover more ground if we split up, but with just the two of us, better to stay within earshot. See if we find something.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we get there.”

You turn Negan’s words over in your mind, weigh them carefully as you pace a short back-and-forth across the sidewalk.

“Alright,” you say after another beat, finally turning back to face Negan and stubbornly ignoring the subtly satisfied look on his face, “I _guess_ that makes sense.”

“You saying I’m _right_?” His smile widens into a grin. “Did I fucking hear that correctly?”

“Just this _once._ Now quit being a dick before I change my mind.”

“No promises, sweetheart.”

And there’s no response to that but to roll your eyes and turn away so he can’t catch the hint of a smile at the corners of your mouth, the reluctant amusement threatening to break over your face. 

“Well,” you say after a pause, “let’s go.” With his footsteps a half-beat behind yours, the two of you start making your way down the street, shoes picking a path through the bloodstained pavement towards the trees visible behind the low line of rooftops. 

That’s when you hear the man scream.

In truth, it shouldn’t come as a surprise. Because it’s not like it’s anything unique or unusual or new — at this point, that kind of tortured sound is as much a part of the fabric of the world as bullet shells and knife blades. You’re more familiar than you want to be with that kind of rough and shatter-glass melody, the way it ricochets off the steel lines of skyscrapers and bleeds out onto the sidewalk .

It’d be the anthem of the living, if it didn’t inevitably precede a swift and uncompromising end.

As soon as the wail cuts through the silence, you and Negan both freeze, your hand dropping to the gun at your waist while his tightens around Lucille, both your heads turning carefully to try and divine the source of the reverberation.

“We need to fall back,” Negan says under his breath, inclining his head toward the direction of the sedan, “fucking _now_.”

“Fuck _that._ ” You fire back, feet angled to follow the path of the scream as you take a step away. “That was Chase — it _had_ to be. I’ve got to find him.” You turn your head to look down the street, start to move when Negan’s hand shoots out, gloved fingers wrapping around your forearm just tight enough to hold you in place.

“Are you fucking _shitting me_ , sweetheart?” Negan hisses, look darkening as he catches sight of the stubborn set of your chin. “What did we _just_ fucking talk about? What did I _just fucking say_?”

“I can’t just _leave him_!”

“It’s a fucking mistake—“

“ _Fuck_ you and your speeches.” You shoot back, mouth set in a tight line. “You don’t want to come? Fucking _don’t_ — but I don’t have time for this bullshit.” With a sharp tug, just enough pressure to break his grip, you pull your arm free from his grasp.

“Fuck’s _sake_ —“

“Feel free to wait for me in the car.” You say sharply, tone slightly harsh as you cut off his next words. And you don’t wait for his response, don’t allow yourself to read his expression, because at this point— _fuck_ —it doesn’t matter.

It’s now or never, so you pull the gun from your waist and turn your back, boot soles kicking a drumbeat against the pavement as you sprint off down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, so, do I feel like an asshole for not updating for a month and then leaving you with a cliffhanger?
> 
> yes, yes I do.
> 
> seriously - apologies for how long it's been since the last chapter. after I posted the previous one, there was just this perfect storm of writer's block and plot-related existential crises and the start of my junior year of college (haha what the _fuck_ ) and finding the time to write/edit this chapter was just, uh, not happening.
> 
> but with the new season premiering tonight, it only seemed right to finally pull my shit together enough to give you an update.
> 
> anyway, sorry for not ending this chapter on...as quite of a fuzzy note as the last one, but, like, it's the zombie apocalypse. shit happens.
> 
> (and, you know, more shit is still gonna happen)
> 
> so on that note, I leave you all (until the next update, which, fingers crossed, will be much more prompt). as always, thank you so, _so_ much for reading/commenting/kudosing (I'm just gonna say that's a word). hopefully the new update doesn't disappoint and thanks again!!
> 
> (also, enormous thanks to [TheBannedAuthor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBannedAuthor/pseuds/TheBannedAuthor) for beta-ing this chapter!)


	16. Chapter 16

You don’t let yourself look back as you run. Can’t let yourself think any further than this moment, than the rhythm of your shoes thudding against the tarmac and the sweat beading on your skin where your palm is wrapped around the grip of the gun. Deaf to everything but the sound of your own breathing, hard and harsh in your lungs. Blind to the sight of anything but the road in front of you, the next turn, the makeshift trail snaking through shadowed alleys and past rusting lampposts to whatever is waiting at the end of this bloody brick road.

_Come on, Chase — come on. Just hang on a little longer._

You’ve got fucking _nothing_ resembling a plan, no direction or strategy beyond _get there_ as _fast as you fucking can_. And it’s hard not to recognize your own impulsivity as you skid around the next turn, as you pump your arms to coax just a little more speed from your legs. _God_ — you know how reckless this is, that you should know better by now, but— _damn it to hell—_ this is _Chase_ you’re talking about, and it’s easy to make the argument that a little impulsivity is worth it.

You delay and he’s dead. And given those stakes, what else are you supposed to _do_ but sprint like you’re trying to beat the sun to the horizon.

The streets fell quiet after the echoes from the scream died out, leaving you now with no better guide than a vague sense of direction. But it’ll be enough, because a cry like that means walkers, and it means more than fucking one of them. Promises the sound of shuffling feet and scrabbling hands and that back-of-the-throat _hiss_ and you know how to recognize all of those signs by now because— _fuck_ —you _have_ to. So it doesn’t take much—a brief pause after you slip between a parked VW and battered Chevy pickup—to hear that telltale soundscape reverberating from maybe a block away, to know that there’s a mass of walkers coalescing on a beating heart like flies flocking to meat left out in the sun.

_Fucking please, Chase. I’m almost there_.

You’re still hurrying—can’t afford to do anything less—but you’ve slowed your breakneck pace to a more deliberate gait, the blurred beat of your legs traded in for something quiet and cautious, weight kept forward on the balls of your toes. 

You can see what you’re looking for on the next block, just up the street beneath the burned-out block letters of a CVS — a noise inside pulling in a handful of walkers off the street, hands slapping against the plate glass until they can fumble their way through the swinging doors. Vision so tunneled with the promise of fresh blood that they don’t hear you coming, don’t register the patter of your steps before your knife is dug deep in their skulls and they’re sinking down to the pavement. And now the way is clear and you step a path through the tangle of limbs blocking the entrance, push your way past with knife and gun at the ready and _goddammit, Chase, where are you_?

With toppled shelves and stripped display cases shoved up against the windows, light spilling only weakly past the cracks in the makeshift barricades, the atmosphere on the other side of the door is dim and hazy, like you’re walking into the lair of something ancient and slumbering. There’s walker blood pooling around your feet and uncharted territory ahead and your instincts are caught somewhere between a single-minded focus to find Chase and a tendency towards caution that’s been burned into your reflexes. 

Lie to yourself and pretend you can be both. That this is a narrative where rushing and recklessness aren’t mutually exclusive things. That just this once, you can afford to cut corners. Can afford to bulldoze them down altogether.

Past a strip of cash registers gathering dust over stretches of stained carpet, you can hear shuffling feet and the guttural croak of walkers down the aisles. Adopting light steps, feet treading softly past ripped bags of peanuts and scattered pieces of pink bubblegum, you sidle further along, glancing down the rows of shelving just long enough to confirm Chase’s absence before you move onto the next. You can see the asymmetric silhouettes of the occasional walker lumbering in the shadows, registering their presence without giving them enough thought to consider them a threat.

Today isn’t about the dead. Right now, they can’t matter.

Finally—fucking _finally_ —you catch sight of movement at the end of one of the aisles, of motion that’s smooth and seamless like oiled joints, natural and fluid where walkers lurch from step to step like they’re built of rusting parts. You sidestep a toppled display of greeting cards, boots treading over the graphics and sentiments scattered like fallen leaves. Easing your way into the aisle, shelves running a path on either side, you take a few more steps down, moving towards the haphazard disarray of limbs scattered across the carpet in front of the pharmaceutical counter at the end of the row. Adjusting your grip on the knife handle, you feel your way through the shadows between the shelves, past ransacked displays of shampoo and toothpaste until you can discern the scene in more detail, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting enough that you can start to make sense of things.

You count five, maybe six walkers scattered around the floor, fallen in a rough arc around the base of the counter. At the center of the semicircle, back pressed up against the paneling, arms wrapped loosely around the chest of a slumped body with blood trickling from a bite to the neck, you can see the figure of… _someone_. And you think the build looks familiar, think maybe they could be the right height, right weight — but the hair color looks a little too light, even in the shadows, and there’s something about the cadence of their movements that just seems…off. You’re not sure though. Can’t be sure from this distance, so you move a little closer, peer through the haze as they lift their head—

Fuck.

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

It isn’t Chase.

Fucking shitting _fuck_.

He’s young, maybe seventeen or eighteen at the most, the front of his tee smeared with the last lifeblood of whoever the fuck he’s cradling, tear tracks smudging the dirt on his cheeks. And now, seeing the slump of his shoulders, the way he’s canted forwards like a prayer, you recognize that the scream you were chasing wasn’t a plea for help or some kind of last farewell, but giving voice to the sort of grief that rips your throat in two. The kind of loss corrosive as acid, tearing through composure and stability and emotional barricades like a battering ram through popsicle sticks.

And it’s not like you don’t know how that anguish feels—because _of course_ you do—and there’s an unselfish part of you that knows you can and should empathize with his pain. But your mind’s gotten stuck on the fact that this _isn’t fucking Chase_ and you’re having a hard time caring about anything else because this was supposed to be _it —_ the satisfying resolution to this quixotic-fucking bullshit.

You’d paid your dues for Chase in gallons of gas and mile markers and walker blood. And, no, nothing is really fair anymore—no adherence to instruction manuals or back page synopses—but _still_ , you really felt like you’d earned some semblance of a happy ending.

Instead you’ve got one kid wasting his tears on the carpet and you’re left feeling like a goddamn _fool_.

_Fuck_.

How could it not be Chase? _How did you get this wrong?_

You can feel your own tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, hot against your eyelids and beading on your lashes as your frustration at the genuine fucking _unfairness_ of the situation spills past your control. That temptation to sink down to the floor, drop your head low, let your shoulders fall under the weight of your failure. To let yourself really feel the uncomfortable facts of the situation — that you fucked up, threw caution to the wind for fucking nothing.

That Negan was right.

But if this new world has taught you anything—and there are days where it seems the lessons won’t ever stop coming—it’s that there’s no more room or time or space for self-pity. Much as you might want to indulge the sharp sting of your disappointment, all it takes is the sound of a hand groping through rows of conditioner to remind you that you aren’t alone, that you are so very far from safe. Drawn to the sound of whatever scuffle had taken place before your arrival, to the hiccuping cries of the boy by the counter, the rest of the walkers in the store have finished feeling their way through the aisles to this back corner, and— _shit_ —you’d made some _dangerous_ underestimations about their numbers. Knife at the ready, you turn in time to catch one coming down the aisle behind you, slipping between its outstretched arms to sink your blade into the skull, kicking yourself for having been so distracted to let it get that close in the first place.

You pull your knife free in time to see another shambling down the aisle at you, but it’s still a ways away and you’ve got other concerns demanding your focus. Whether the sound of the walker thudding to the ground or the shuffling tread of a dozen others over the carpet, the boy at the counter finally seems shaken from his grief-induced reverie, looking up from the body in his arms and falling back against the formica as he sees the undead converging on him, his hands frantic at the ground by his feet as his horizon narrows to teeth and fingernails and bone.

“Oh shit,” you hear him say as he digs a gun out from under a body, “oh shit, oh _shit_.” His eyes are wide and his motions unsteady, fingers trembling and unsure around the grip like he’s never even _held_ a gun before, let alone fired the damn thing.

“Kid!” You say, the word slipping out like a whispered shout. _Fuck_. “ _Kid_!” He turns his head, catching your eye. You can see that his avenues of escape are rapidly closing, but he’s still got a window down your aisle—you’re maybe twenty yards away, at best—and you’re not so heartless as to leave him in the middle of that level of shit. “Quit worrying about the gun and fucking _run for it_.”

The walkers are almost on him now and the gun is shaking between his hands and forget about making a run for it, he doesn’t even look capable of _blinking_. And it’s becoming increasingly clear that he’s barely more than a child — one who’s never had to confront his fear, who’s let it paralyze the wires of sinew running through his skinny limbs because he just doesn’t know any better. So the smart move would be making a break for it while you’ve still got only one or two undead in your way, to accept that the kid is almost certainly fucked and that if you can’t save his life, you might as well save your own. 

But— _hell_ —you’ve never been that smart.

With an almost disbelieving shake of your head—like you can’t fathom that you’re _really_ doing this—you knife the walker at your back before turning to sprint down the aisle, towards where the boy has just managed to figure out pulling back the hammer before letting out a handful of almost laughably inaccurate shots — four bullets buried in the body of the walker right in front of him and fucking _none of them_ ending up anywhere near the head. 

“Fuck’s sake — _run_.” You call towards him as you make your way down the aisle, feet chewing up the yards between you, hoping your words might spur him into some kind of action or that you might be able to clear him a route. And whether it’s something in your words or the hollow _clicks_ of an empty and wasted chamber, he finally seems to wake up and hear your advice. Dropping the now-useless gun at his feet, he throws himself to the side, just slipping past a half-dozen pairs of groping arms as he stumbles towards the back wall.

_Fucking finally_. “Kid, can you make it down one of the aisles? Come on, we can still get out of this.” And maybe it’s pointless, and, no, he isn’t Chase, but you came here to save _someone,_ and you’ll be damned if you walk out of here empty-handed.

“I’m not sure—no, wait—there’s more of them. Fuck, _fuck_.” He calls back to you, tone thick with panic, and you can just keep him in sight through gaps in the shelving, watching him feeling his way along the back wall. “Wait, there’s an emergency exit!”

“Kid, _careful_ ,” you say, something about the situation sparking a feeling of dread low in the pit of your stomach. “You don’t know what’s on the other side. Listen, can you get to me?”

There’s still eight or ten walkers between the two of you, their feet tripping over the carpet as they chase after the boy, and you realize all at once that you won’t get to him in time. Can’t get to him in time. That he’s still too far, and the odds of him getting bitten first are too high, and his back is pressed up against the wall with nowhere left to go. His head whips towards you, just for a moment, just long enough for you to see the fear he’s wearing like a second skin before his hand reaches for the door, before he tugs the rusted metal open.

“ _Wait_ —“

You’ll never know how many walkers were waiting on the other side of the door, but it’s not like it really matters. Not like a few less would’ve made any difference. However many, it was enough, and the kid never stood a fucking _chance_. 

He’s still got his fingers wrapped around the handle, just clicked back the latch when the first of them come pushing through the frame, greedy nails digging into his shoulders, chipped teeth cutting ragged holes into the tendons of his neck. And it takes a moment, a beat before three others fall like leeches on his arms and stomach for him to process the pain, for him to start screaming.

Like always, like you’ve seen before, it’s over almost as soon as it starts. Major arteries punctured and organs ripped loose and ripped skin of rotting hands soaked red as they dig into the broken-open chest cavity. Fingers searching between his ribs like reaching for loose change down the back of couch cushions. And soon he’s lost somewhere underneath a pulsing mass of mouths dipped in cherry juice and wake up, fucking _wake up_ , because he is _gone_ but you’re _not_ and you are _not_ _out of this yet._

_Okay, asshole, time to move._

Underneath the burned-out neon of the emergency exit sign, more and more and fucking _more_ keep spilling through the gap, overflowing past the pharmacy counter out into the aisles and they are rapidly fucking realizing that the kid’s body isn’t the only source of fresh meat around. You’ve swiftly fallen to the bottom of the food chain and you’re not accustomed to feeling like prey. And however you want to consider it, out of the frying pan, into the lion’s den, fucking _whatever,_ the point still stands.

You need to get out, and you need to get out _now_.

In the narrow space of the aisle, fenced in between the shelves, only a few can come at you at a time, but that is the _only_ advantage you have and it’ll be worth jack-fucking- _shit_ if you can’t clear a path to the registers and get out before the door is blocked.

You can’t die in a defunct CVS chasing a red herring. That _can’t_ be how your story ends.

Lifting the gun, you fire a few quick shots into the temples of the walkers closest to you, buying yourself a little more time as you back away down the aisle towards the front of the store. And the gunshots ring out too loud in the space but you’ve already got the walkers’ attention and the echo of a few bullets is a risk worth taking. Line up another shot, pull the trigger. Watch a hole blossom in the middle of their forehead before they sink to the carpet, body barely crumpled before another surges forward to take its place.

_Shit. Fuck_.

Another step back, another shot fired. And you’ve got to be careful because you can’t afford to waste your bullets but there are so fucking _many_ of them that you’re sure you could fire blind and still manage to hit your shot. And all-too-soon the gun is spitting out nothing but hollow _clicks_ and you can’t save yourself with an empty chamber and you chance a look over your shoulder to see— _shit, shit_ —almost a dozen at your back between you and the front door and the crowd ahead is almost on you and all you’ve got is your knife and no, no, _no_ —

You’re boxed in on both sides and they’re almost on you and— _no, no, fucking no_ —you honestly never thought that it would end this way.

_God-fucking-dammit_. 

But if this is it—and it’s looking more and more like that’s the way the wind is blowing—the least you can do is go out fighting. 

You stick the gun back into the waistband of your jeans before knifing one in the temple, spinning on your heel just in time to see another lurch your way, arms outstretched and jaw snapping inches from your cheek. Drive your blade up under its chin, pull it loose and shove another back with your forearm, a kick to the chest to give yourself a little breathing room. By now, your back is up against the shelves, knocking down stacked boxes of hair dye with your elbows as you do fucking _everything_ you can to stay on your feet, to push back the hungry tide as long as you can. Let yourself pretend that you’re still a survivor.

Thing is, all it takes is one mistake.

You’re stepping forward to stab another when a walker pushes out of the pack to your right, fingers wrapping around your arm and catching you off-guard and your knife slips out of your grip and _oh no, oh fucking no_ falls beneath the surging mass of clumsy feet and groping hands and you have _never_ been so solidly and undeniably _fucked_. And you’ve still got one on you, the dead weight heavy enough to send you reeling back up against the shelves, metal digging into your spine as you throw up a forearm under the walker’s chin, call up any strength you have left to keep its snapping teeth away from your skin.

But you’ve got no weapon and no plan and at this point, it’s really only a matter of time.

You’ve thought a lot about dying, and as you watch the mass surge closer, feel hands tugging at the fabric of your jacket and pulling at your limbs, you can’t help but wonder how the reality will shape up.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck—_

You’re bracing yourself for the feeling of jagged edges digging into the soft skin at your neck, of serrated teeth biting into your muscle and tendons when there’s a _crack_ from somewhere to your left and a spray of red that spatters across your cheek like droplets from a sprinkler. And you don’t quite understand, can’t really make sense of what just happened until you feel the walker you’ve been holding off fall limp as its head erupts in a jet of bone shards and rotting tissue.

“Alright, sweetheart, time to fucking _move.”_

Your limbs are slow to respond as you look up and catch sight of Negan staring down at you, eyebrows slightly arched, wearing an impenetrable expression as he dispatches two more walkers in quick succession, short and sharp blows to the skull. Then his hand is wrapped around the collar of your jacket, fingers tightening into a fist around the fabric as he pulls you back behind him, jumpstarting the muscles in your legs as he brings Lucille down again. And no part of this feels like it can be real, like you must be dead already except you can’t remember the feeling of nails ripping you apart and you can’t imagine such a transition could ever be painless.

“What—“

“Whatever the fuck it is you want to say,” Negan says over his shoulder, spinning Lucille in his grip before caving in another skull, brain matter hanging off her barbs in sticky clumps, “it can fucking _wait_. How’s the way out look?”

You glance over your shoulder, a trail of dead walkers with shattered skulls littering the floor of the aisle back towards the registers like breadcrumbs dropped in the forest, Ariadne’s string guiding you out of the labyrinth.

“Clear for now,” you say. “Might be our best chance to make a break for it.”

“Then let’s fucking _go_.” With the tide of walkers temporarily stemmed, the next nearest a few feet back, you and Negan seize your flicker of an opportunity, turning to sprint down the aisle while you can. Boots tracking through blood, decaying limbs giving way under your soles as you beat a path across the carpet, the registers and the front door so fucking _close_.

A half-step ahead of Negan, you run out of the aisle into the front of the store, walkers spilling out on either side of you and the way out just within sight.

“If we’re gonna make it, it has to be now,” you say, shoving one back and sending it stumbling.

Negan looks up at where the walkers are starting to filter in front of the door, where your exit strategy is starting to slip through your fingers like a losing game of tug-of-war. And it’s not like the distance is _far_ , but it’s far enough that the half-dozen walkers standing in the way and the two dozen pressing closer pose a real fucking threat and you’ve only got one shot left at this. Weaponless, defenseless, fucking _useless_ , you stay close behind Negan, pushing the walkers back where you can and watching him carve a bloody swath to the front door. Heart beating in your throat and breathing ragged, you watch Negan cut down the last three walkers like he’s standing in front of a pitching machine hitting nothing but triples and could do this _all fucking day._ And then you’re standing in a rectangle of blissfully bright sunlight and the sight of dirt-streaked glass has never brought such relief and the two of you are pushing past the doors and out into the streets.

“Not out of this yet, sweetheart.” Negan says, shaking the loose viscera from Lucille and wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. “That noise is gonna keep drawing more of them, so I’d say it’s past fucking time we get the ever-loving _fuck_ out of dodge.”

And you’re too hyped up on fear and adrenaline to do much more than give a shaky nod, matching Negan’s relentless pace as the two of you start running down the streets, block after block disappearing under your feet as you head for the car. When you’re maybe five or six minutes out from the CVS, Negan slows to a stop, pausing on the street outside a boarded-up restaurant.

“First things first,” Negan says, shifting his grip on Lucille as he takes a step towards you. “You fucking get bit?”

You meet his stare, shake your head slowly.

“You hurt?”

“No. No, I’m fine.”

“Fucking good.” Negan looks you over carefully and gives a slight nod. “Looks like we’ve got some time so take a minute and catch your breath,” he says, leaning back against the storefront window. “Can’t have you fucking passing out on me before we make it to the car.”

You’re tempted to argue, to say that you can keep going, to reiterate your claim that you’re fine — but you’re not, really. You’ve got walker blood drying on your cheeks and flecked in your hair, jacket stained in a half-dozen places, hands still shaking from excess adrenaline.

And fucking somehow, you’re still alive.

“I…fuck, listen—“

“Save your breath, sweetheart.” Negan says, eyes flicking up and down the street. “And let’s worry about getting out of this shithole first. Like I said before, whatever the fuck it is you want to say, it can _wait_.” He pushes off from the plate glass, takes a few steps toward you, voice lowered.

“And don’t you worry, you’ll get your fucking chance. Because you better fucking _believe me_ , sweetheart — you and I are due for one _hell_ of a conversation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (surprised it wasn't chase? obvious plot twist? I tried to make that scene in the CVS tense, but I'm not sure how effective it was...after all I, uh, wouldn't exactly have much of a story left if I killed 'you' off, so of course she wasn't going to die)
> 
> once again, huge, huge thanks to [TheBannedAuthor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBannedAuthor/pseuds/TheBannedAuthor) for beta-ing this chapter
> 
> finally, god _damn_ \-- thank you all so, so much for the comments/kudos/feedback on the last chapter. I was pretty nervous about uploading it (especially with how long it had been since I updated) but I'm so glad you liked it and I hope that the new chapter doesn't disappoint!!
> 
> (and, if you want? you can come find me on [tumblr](http://thatsparrow.tumblr.com/))


	17. Chapter 17

Negan gives you another minute or two to catch your breath, just long enough for the double-time beat of your heart to slow, to steady. For your hands to stop trembling like a restless twitch and for some of the adrenaline to leech out of your skin. But even if this stretch of downtown is quiet now, you know you’re not really safe. You’re leaning back against the post of a streetlight, metal pole running parallel to your spine, eyes closed and breath loud in your ears and you can _still_ hear them. The aimless and uneven shuffle over weathered pages of newsprint. An arrhythmic drumbeat of hands slapping windowpanes, snapping jaws pressed up against the glass. The wet and messy sound of teeth and fingers clawing their way through a hungry dissection. 

And you can still picture it — the way they’d fallen on the kid, lunged for the exposed patches of skin, his cries giving way to their chewing, pieces of his stomach hanging from their palms and slipping between their fingers, everything painted a bright and gooey red—

“Time’s up.” Negan says, your eyes snapping open as his voice cuts through your reverie. “Let’s go.”

You nod, wipe dirt and sweat from the creases of your palms onto your jeans, follow his silhouette down the street.

It’s maybe another ten minutes back to the car, and you’re thankful that it passes uneventfully — that the only walkers you see lurch by in the distance because you don’t trust your hands right now. And then you’re back at the sedan and it’s such a goddamn relief to pull open the passenger door and collapse inside, to take a break from keeping yourself upright and steady and just sink back into the seat. It’s quiet in the car, and you let your eyes fall shut again as you prop one foot up on the dash, only peripherally aware of Negan starting the car, the feel of the wheels curving as he pulls a U-turn.

You breathe slowly, fingers tapping absently against your knee.

_Breathe_.

It isn’t really about the kid — you know that, even if that’s where your mind keeps flashing back to. Because of course it isn’t. You’ve seen people die like that before—more than you can count—and you’re past the point where seeing a scrawny teenager get pulled apart like a chew toy caught between a dog’s teeth can shake you.

But you’re still rattled, nerves like a violin string tuned to a breaking point, and you _hate_ feeling this way. Hate it even more, that you can’t exactly figure out why.

And all this time—save the handful of words he’d thrown your way after showing up in the CVS—Negan’s been silent. Jaw set and mouth shut and that _can’t_ mean anything good, because in the brief time you’ve known him, he has never struck you as the sort of man who lacked something to say. A running list of jokes and commands and “motherfucking shithead _fucks_ ” queued up like words on a teleprompter.

Except for right now. This moment. And that’s driving you up the goddamn wall, too, because _what the fuck_? You could see _something_ in his expression when he’d told you to move in the CVS, grabbed you by the collar like a stray fucking kitten and pulled you behind him. Could hear something in his tone when he told you to catch your breath and save your words because a conversation was coming. But reading Negan requires a Rosetta Stone and at best you’ve got a back-pocket translation guide and you wish he’d just fucking _say it, already_ because you feel like you’re standing on a tightrope and the anticipation is someone shaking the wire beneath your feet.

But you should’ve known he wouldn’t make it that easy, and eventually you hit the point of _fuck it_ because if he won’t say anything, hell— _fine—_ you will.

You open your eyes to see the last of the residential homes flicker past outside the windows, neat two-story models shrinking in the rearview. Then you're reaching the turn for the main road, but instead of making a right, like you expect, Negan takes a left — back in the direction of the Sanctuary.

“Wait, where are we going?” You ask, surprise temporarily winning out over your earlier curiosity.

Silence.

“You’re shitting me, right? We’re not going _back_ , are we? It’s barely been a _day_ —“

“Sweetheart, do yourself a favor and shut the fuck up.”

It’s there, in his tone — low and quiet and deadly fucking serious. As much warning as you’re going to get to let this go.

But come _on._ You can’t give up yet, can’t let Chase go that easily.

“Look, I know—“

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.”

“Dammit, _please—_ ”

Then you feel the car pull hard to the right, wheels digging into the gravel on the shoulder of the road, Negan slamming on the brakes so hard that you have to throw your hands up to catch yourself before your face meets the dashboard. And it’s so unexpected that you can’t quite process what’s just happened, only a vague awareness in your periphery of the driver’s side door opening and closing from somewhere to your left. But you can’t really make sense of the situation until your own door flies open and you feel Negan’s hand close around the front of your shirt, tugging you out of your seat and out of the whole damn _car_ with enough force to send you reeling, his iron-tight grip around the fabric the only thing keeping you upright.

“What the _fuck_ —“

And then your back is slammed up against the side of the Ford, elbows banging against the door and palms pressed flat on the metal and Negan’s forearm is pushed up against your chest, leaving you pinned between two immovable objects. You can feel the curve of the car against your shoulder blades and the sleeve of his leather jacket is a black perpendicular line across your sternum and there’s nowhere to go and nothing to do but lift your head and meet the stare he’s giving you, his face focused and unreadable.

“Alright, sweetheart.” Negan says, head inclined towards yours, voice low. “Now, do I have your full and fucking undivided attention?”

You nod, slowly.

“Fucking _great._ ” He says, lowering his arm from your chest and taking a step back. “Then tell me this — do you _want_ to die? Is that it?”

It’s not what you expect to hear and confusion flashes across your face. “Fucking excuse me? The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Not a hard question, in fact, it’s a pretty fucking simple one. Do you want to die? I’m being fucking serious here — is that what this whole thing has been about?” He adjusts his hold on Lucille, the gesture almost absent.

Except you should’ve known it’s as calculated as every other move he makes. Because then he’s got both hands wrapped around the grip and before you can really register what’s happening, the bastard fucking _swings —_ barbed-wire wrapped barrel coming to a halt goddamn _inches_ from your head. Your breath is stuck fast somewhere in your lungs and there’s viscera between the metal teeth that's dripping blood onto your shoulder like water from a leaking faucet. You can’t imagine what expression your face must be wearing right now but Negan’s just staring at you with this look that’s level and considering before the lines of his mouth slowly curve up and he’s giving you a fucking _smile_.

“Because if that’s the case—if dying is all you’re fucking looking for—fucking tell me now and I’ll save us both a _whole_ lot of time and trouble.” He arches one brow, but you can barely hear his last words with how loud the blood is pounding in your ears. And he’s waiting for his answer, but it takes a moment before you can even begin to remember how your vocal chords are supposed to work.

_Drip, drip, drip_.

“No.” You say finally, the word quiet enough to be lost in the short distance between you.

“What was that? Gonna need you to fucking speak up, sweetheart.”

“ _No,_ okay?” You hold his stare, take a breath, throw the words back at him as steady as you can manage. “No — _I don’t want to die_.”

The smile fades from Negan’s face, replaced by an expression that could’ve been sculpted from steel. “You sure about that?” He lets Lucille swing down, barrel of the bat whistling past your side and spraying the sedan with flecks of walker gut. “‘Cause judging from what just happened—“ he says, head tilted and voice like a razor, “—from the idiotic fucking _bullshit_ you just pulled—you _could’ve fucking fooled me_.”

“That’s not—“

“ _Enough_!” Negan barks, the word loud and abrupt and unexpected. Sharp enough to shut down whatever argument or protest you had waiting, filled with enough fire and rage to sew your lips shut. And you get it now, what you hadn’t been able to read in his expression or his tone. That what you’d been seeing back in town was Negan _restrained._ Emotion locked away behind an iron mask because the priority had to be getting out and getting away. But now it’s just the two of you on the side of the road, surrounded by the kind of wide expanse of empty fields that could serve as a landing strip for Superman, and there is _finally_ enough room to give space to his anger.

Because this? Fuck — this is Negan _furious_.

“Now fucking listen up, sweetheart, and listen _close_ — I said you’d get your chance to speak your piece, and I meant it, but not fucking yet.” His hands flex around Lucille’s grip and you can see the sharp set of his jaw underneath his stubble. “Right now, you haven’t earned the right to say _jack fucking shit_. And talking back to me? Questioning my orders? Are you fucking _kidding me_? You honestly think after the bullshit you tried that you get to say one single solitary fucking word?

“Because let’s clear that up right now, sweetheart. Let’s take this time to get on the same motherfucking page. Right now, fucking _all_ you get to do is stand there and shut up and fucking _listen_. Get me? That’s _it_. I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen and you do not get to say one fucking _thing_ until I’m done.”

Negan pauses, tilts his head, gives you a considering look.

“So, we at a fucking understanding?”

You’ve managed to continue holding his stare, but only just. Have had to focus on taking even breaths, the metal of the car warm against your palms, and the way the door handle is digging into your spine to keep yourself grounded. Bite the inside of your cheek to hold back your anger. You’ve never felt so pissed and insulted and you hate it even more because you know that Negan isn’t _wrong_. 

Because you deserve every word he’s thrown your way, and more that he hasn’t.

There’s a beat of silence after his last words, and you know what he’s waiting for, even if it feels like more than your pride can take. But the truth is that Negan saved your life, and that he risked his own to do it, and that—whether you want to fucking admit it or not—you _owe him_.

So, jaw gritted tight like it’s been rusted shut, you drop your eyes, and you nod your understanding.

“Well fucking _look at that!”_ Negan says, each word emphasized like it’s got a bold capital letter. “Finally we’re making some fucking progress!”

You keep your head lowered, eyes trained on the gravel at your feet. Can’t tell how the tone of his words lines up with the expression on his face, and don’t quite know what to expect as he sets Lucille against the side of the car, as his boots take a half-step towards you. The green screen of a weather forecast is telling you that a storm is coming and you feel like you’re caught out in the open holding your breath to see where the lightning will strike. Whether it’ll scorch the ground at your feet.

That’s when you feel Negan’s hand curve around the back of your neck, callused palm rough against the skin under your ear, pad of his thumb tracing an easy line along your jaw. And you keep your mouth shut as he applies just enough pressure with his fingertips to lift your head, to raise your chin until you’re looking up to meet his eyes.

“Feeling fucking frustrated, sweetheart?” Negan asks, voice lowering. “Feeling pissed? Good. You _should be_. Because you know what? You fucked up back there — all there is to it.” He lets out a slight exhale. “Sweet almighty _fuck,_ did you fuck up. And now, you and I are not going fucking _anywhere_ until we sort this shit out.

“First thing on the fucking agenda?” He says, tongue wetting his lips. “What in the absolute ever-loving _fuck_ you were thinking. I want to talk about what fucking thought in the whole-wide-shitting-world could’ve _possibly_ been going through your mind.” You open your mouth to say something, lips parted slightly, but Negan shakes his head before you can. Tightens his hold fractionally, just enough to remind you who’s in charge.

“ _No_. See — I wasn’t actually asking. You know why? ‘Cause I don’t fucking _need to_.” His eyes flicker across your face, his expression impassive. “Because it doesn’t take some act of divine intervention or whatever bullshit excuses you’ve got or even a magic fucking 8-ball to tell me what I already fucking know — that you _weren’t_ thinking. Fucking couldn’t’ve been. That you decided to fucking fuck logic and reason and clear-fucking-headedness and run on sheer fucking stupidity alone.” He lets out a slight exhale, shakes his head. “And here I thought you were fucking smarter than that, sweetheart.”

You’ve never found it easy to be reminded of your faults and missteps—honestly, who does?—but there is something so much worse in hearing them listed off with that note of genuine goddamn disappointment threaded through Negan’s words. You could handle the fire of his anger, could take it like a form of penance, but this? Fuck. _Fuck._ He won’t be content until this shame and embarrassment you’re feeling isn’t the sting of a mosquito you can brush off but a tattoo inked several layers of skin deep. Won’t relent until you’re forced to stare down every uncomfortable truth you’ve been avoiding, understand them like annotated passages in a paperback, and _wake the fuck up_.

Because he’s right — you weren’t thinking when you ran off down the street. Those are the facts, despite whatever bullshit explanations you might want to tell yourself. You weren’t thinking, and that’s the kind of mistake that should’ve gotten you killed, and the only reason it didn’t is because of Negan.

So you drop your eyes back down, because in that moment, the sharp and unforgiving edge in his eyes is more than you can take. Take refuge from his uncensored look of judgment in keeping your gaze focused on the toes of his boots.

“Sweetheart,” he says, voice quiet and serious and somehow absent the biting tone you expect to hear, “look at me.”

But you don’t—can’t, really—at least, not right away. Can’t quite bring yourself to it until you feel Negan’s fingers under your chin, until he tilts your head back up to meet his eyes.

“Whoever the fuck it is that you’ve lost, whatever fucking survivor’s guilt you’re carrying—whatever the _fuck_ it is that you’re still punishing yourself about—you have _got_ to fucking _get the fuck past it_.”

You flex your hands under the weight of Negan’s stare, bite down on your bottom lip as you try to figure out the right way to answer. “It’s not like it’s that goddamn simple.”

“No?” Negan asks, brows raised. “Then fucking enlighten me. The fuck kind of pathetic sob story do you have that you think makes you so shitting special?”

“Because it’s _my fault_.” You say, throwing out the last words like they scald your tongue. “This isn’t some bullshit guilt I’m feeling because I’m still alive and people I care about aren’t — it’s the guilt I fucking _deserve_ because _I_ made shitty choices and _I_ fucked up and _I_ got them killed.” You run your hands over your face, like you can scrub the shame from your skin. “And Chase? _Fuck_ — he’s been one of my closest friends for a fucking _year,_ but because I was so wrapped up in my own goddamn shit, I couldn’t see the level of pain he was in. I had my eyes shut to everyone’s problems but my own, and I wasn’t there for him, and now he’s _gone._ ” You look up, fix Negan’s eyes with your own. “So, no, I can’t just _get the fuck past it_ because I’ve done jack _shit_ to earn anyone’s forgiveness. You wanna know what makes me so fucking special?—you condescending _jackass_ —because it is _my fucking fault_.”

You’ve got your hands tightened into fists and can feel your shoulders trembling under the weight of your frustration and regret and anger. And it occurs to you dimly that you’ve most certainly crossed several lines, sprinted past them like a runner on a track, and that if there was ever a time to fear Negan, this would be it.

Instead— _hell_ —Negan shakes his head, runs a hand over his beard, looks down at you with this infuriating mix of disbelief and exasperation and actually lets out a motherfucking _laugh_. Not quite the kind of head-thrown-back sound you’ve heard from him before, but instead, that low, back-of-the-throat chuckle that pulls goosebumps from your skin.

“No, sweetheart.” He says after another beat, hints of his amusement lingering in the lines that bracket his mouth. “No — it really fucking _isn’t_.”

You open your mouth to argue, but before you have the chance to speak, Negan takes another half-step in your direction. Plants one hand on the roof of the car just next to your shoulder, unnerves you into silence by virtue of his proximity alone.

Because there’s something about having him this fucking _close_ that short-circuits your synapses and fills your limbs with concrete and allows you to empathize with every poor fuck Medusa ever turned to stone. 

“Thing you need to understand—“ Negan says, inclining his head toward yours, “—thing you should’ve already fucking figured out by now—is that this world is not fucking made for everyone. Get it? Survival of the fucking fittest, sweetheart. Mother nature pulling out all the fucking stops and if you don’t make the grade, you are fucking _fucked_.” He fixes his eyes on yours, won’t let you look away until you’ve taken his point like a kick to the stomach. “I’ve seen it first-fucking-hand and there’s no way in shitting hellfire you haven’t — fucking not everybody makes it. Not everybody _gets to._ Some just don’t have what it fucking takes to stay alive and some just don’t fucking _want to_.

“‘Cause living? Fuck, sweetheart, living is _hard_. And having the fucking balls to see this thing through ain’t a fucking given — never has been, and sure as _shit_ ain’t now.” He settles his other hand on the car, fences you in between the solid black lines of his jacket. “And it is not on you—not on fucking anybody—to take on the blame or guilt for the ones who couldn’t cut it. Fucking can’t save everyone, sweetheart. ‘Specially those who don’t fucking want to be saved.

“And—hey—I won’t say _shit_ about the mind-blowing fucking idiocy of you risking your own damn neck for the sake of somebody else. Won’t point out jack about how fucking none of the assholes you’re still weeping over would want you dying for them. Because this is more shit that you already fucking know, right? Because you _are_ smarter than that, sweetheart, and there’s no fucking way you’d need me to tell you that you getting yourself killed doesn’t help fucking _anybody_.”

Negan lets out a slight exhale, lets his hands fall from the car, takes a step back and finally puts some distance between the two of you. Looks you over like he’s making an appraisal, picks Lucille up from where he’d left her leaning around the side of the sedan, and shifts his hand around the grip.

“Now get back in the fucking car. It’s time to go.”

Any other time, any other day, you’d fight back. Hold your ground like you’ve got cinderblocks strapped around your ankles and dig your heels in deep enough to plow furrows and stand fast until you make your case. 

But today? Right now? _Fuck._ You’re feeling tired and beaten-down and so goddamn _bruised_. Repeated blows to your pride and your confidence and your ego that you’re sure must be showing like the mottled brown skin of a peach. 

God, you’re so fucking _tired_. So this time, you don’t fight. Instead, sink back against the side of the sedan like all the muscles in your legs have withered and your bones have crumpled like the paper wrapper from a drinking straw. Ignore the way Negan’s staring at you before he turns and rounds the car back to the driver’s side. Stay silent as you fumble for the latch of the passenger door and fall down into your seat without a word.

Fuck. _Fuck_.

“Chin up, sweetheart,” Negan says as he turns the key, angles the wheels back towards the road. “Just think — soon, you’ll be back in your bunk, fucking safe and sound.”

“Fuck you.” You shoot back, the words half-hearted and more reflexive than anything else.

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

* * *

 

You’re fifteen minutes further down the road when a thought occurs to you, pulls you upright from where you’re slumped down in the seat and has you turning Negan’s way. “Stop the car.”

“Fuck did you say?”

“You heard me — stop the car.”

“The hell for?”

Your nails are tapping an absent rhythm against the armrest and the lines of your legs and spine have sharpened from a slouch into something alert, obtuse angles shrunk down to the acute. “Earlier, you said we were due for a conversation, and that I’d get the chance to speak my piece when you were done. Well, I sat through your goddamn sermon and, now, it’s my turn.”

Negan looks over at you, eyebrows arched like your words are something amusing, before offering you a slight concessive tilt of the head and slowing the car down to a halt. “Alright, sweetheart — fuck’s on your mind?”

“Why did you come after me?”

“Excuse me?”

“Because I don’t get it. Can’t fucking rationalize it no matter how many different ways I think about it. _Why did you follow me_?” 

Negan meets your stare directly, answers the question in your eyes with an unreadable expression of his own. “You saying I shouldn’t have? Am I hearing that right?” Draws his brows together. “You’d rather I left you to fucking die?”

“I think we established earlier that I’m firmly in favor of living, thanks.” Your lips are pressed together in a thin line, toes fidgeting in your boots. “But that’s not the point. I thought I was going to die back there—hell, I was fucking _sure_ of it—because I didn’t expect you to come after me.” It’s tempting to deliver your words to the windshield, to avoid whatever might be behind Negan’s expression that could chip away at your nerves before you can finish your point.

“I didn’t _want_ to die, but as soon as I lost my knife and ran out of bullets, I was prepared for it. Because I fucked up, and because that’s what happen when you fuck up. You die. Because this world doesn’t deal in second chances and because I didn’t deserve one. I made a reckless and impulsive decision, ran into the lion’s den with my eyes damn wide open, and ended up backed into a corner. And I should be dead right now and the only reason I’m not is because of you.

“And that’s what I don’t fucking get — _that’s_ what I can’t wrap my mind around.” You bite down on the inside of your cheek, chew over your words as you try and figure out the right ones to use. “You following me makes _no fucking sense_. Look, I wouldn’t have blamed you for leaving me— _fuck_ —I goddamn _expected it_. You know why? Because you leaving me would have been the smart fucking call. You don’t owe me anything. You should’ve left me to die. So why the fuck didn’t you?”

“You fucking complaining?” Negan’s got his palm resting across the top of the steering wheel, body turned towards yours, expression caught somewhere between amusement and the barest indication of confusion.

“Like I said,” you continue, doing your damnedest to ignore that unrelenting and searching look in Negan’s eyes as they flicker across your face, “I’m thrilled to still be breathing. But you went on and fucking _on_ about how I shouldn’t be risking my neck for somebody else — right after you did that exact same fucking thing. You put your own life on the line to save mine, ran knee-deep into a mess of shit for me. _Why_?”

“If you think a few fucking dead pose any kind of a serious threat to me, I’m sincerely fucking insulted.”

“You really want to act like none of this matters to you? Fuck, fine, spin whatever bullshit you want. But that won’t fucking work for me.” You drop your eyes back to the dash, a pattern of walker blood imprinted between the air conditioner vents in the shape of your boot soles. “I didn’t want to believe you, earlier, when you said that I was running on emotion and fueled by grief and I was going to get myself killed. Hell — I _didn’t_ believe you. But you know what? You were right.” You shake your head as you throw the words at Negan, the roll of the _r_ and click of the _t_ bitter tasting against your tongue. “Is that what you want to hear? You were fucking _right_.” Flick your eyes back up in his direction, just long enough to catch sight of the unreadable lines of his face, text that’s been redacted with a thick black Sharpie. “I’ve come close to dying before—who fucking hasn’t?—but _never_ like that. Never been so sure that I’d reached the end of the line until today. And if I’d been out here on my own, like I wanted, I would have.”

You pause, waiting to see if he’s going to interrupt, but he doesn’t. Not yet, anyway. And you guess that’s fair of him, because you’re not quite finished. A concluding paragraph still several pages away, a word count contingent on how long your nerves will hold out.

You haven’t burned through your backbone yet, and if he’s still giving you his attention, fuck, you’ll take it while you can.

“You were ready to laugh me out of your office when I came to you and asked for a car and a gun. And the only thing that stopped you was realizing I was going with or without your help. Didn’t take me seriously until you saw just how much I fucking meant it.” You’d been on your feet and headed for his office door when he’d called you back to the chair, offered you a deal, spun your understanding of the situation off its axis.

“And I didn’t call you on it or question it at the time because, just then, it didn’t matter. If fucking divine providence decided to send me a goddamn stroke of good luck, who am I to question it, right?” You give a humorless smile, the sides of your mouth turning up like they’ve been tugged by fishing hooks. “I didn’t want you to come with me, was so fucking _sure_ I didn’t need you. But I was wrong and you were right and for some fucking reason, you seem to care whether I live or die, and I can’t fucking figure out _why_.”

It’s an effort to get those last words out and by the time you’re done, the battery for your bravery’s been drained. There’s a silence that sinks over the car after you reach the end of your sentence, and you look up at Negan, waiting to see how he’ll respond.

But he doesn’t. Not at first. Doesn’t offer any kind of answer or explanation or even a goddamn twitch of his facial expression. Just sits there and looks at you and you’d mistake him for a fucking statue if you couldn’t see the slight rise and fall of his chest under his jacket.

“Sweetheart,” he says after another beat, slight edge in his tone and expression as impassive as you’ve ever seen it, “I think we both know I don’t owe you an answer to fucking anything.”

You let your head sink back into the seat a little, can’t tell if you’re disappointed or relieved or just numb.

“No. No, you don’t.” You concede, a half-laugh in your words. “But don’t insult me by thinking I’m too blind to notice. You don’t want to tell me? Feel like keeping it your private joke? Hell — that’s fine. But you could’ve let me die—more than fucking once—and that’s not the kind of thing I can forget. Sure as shit isn’t the kind of thing I can ignore, either.”

“Yeah, fucking congratulations,” Negan says, shaking his head dismissively. “It has been duly fucking noted that you are a regular Sherlock shitting Holmes — we fucking done with this shit yet, or what?”

He’s reaching for the key in the ignition when you say, “Wait.”

“Fucking _come on_ —“

“Look, I get why you think we should go back. I do.” You know you’re pushing your luck, can feel the situation wavering like a house of cards in a mad March wind. “I know I haven’t earned the right to ask fucking anything else from you, and in the past few hours, all I’ve proved is that I’m selfish and reckless and the smart thing would be shutting me back up behind that gate where the most damage I can do is forgetting to put up a fucking ‘wet floor’ sign.” You let out a defeated laugh, thumb absently massaging circles in your palm, skating over where scrub brushes and mop handles have worn calluses into your skin. “But I also can’t let Chase go that easily. That is not and has never been who I am. And if I give up now, without feeling like I’ve done fucking everything I can, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to move on.”

Negan lets out an impatient sigh, drums his hand against the wheel, mouth pressed in a tight line. “Sweetheart, the fuck are you trying to say?”

“Let me stay out here the last two days — please. Even if nothing comes of it, fuck, at least let me _try_.”

“Why in the ever-loving _fuck_ should I?”

And here’s your gamble. The last poker chips shoved across green felt into the pot.

“Because you would be in charge.” You catch Negan’s eye, hold his stare steadily so there’s no fucking chance he can mistake the certainty in your words. “Every goddamn step of the way. You take the lead and I won’t argue or fight back or contradict you or fucking _anything_. Just let me keep looking for two more days, and—I _swear_ —I’ll follow any order you give, do whatever you ask. Be a goddamn model of good behavior.

“Besides,” you say after another beat, as you start to wish you had earplugs to drown out the deafening sound of Negan’s silence, fumble for something to fill up the space. “You cut this short, that _does_ mean that you’re reneging on our deal.” You try to make the words sound like a joke, let the corners of your mouth turn up, see if you can’t pretend this whole thing is one big game. “If you quit now, I won’t have to owe you that favor.”

The half-smile slowly falls from your face, replaced by something open and earnest. As if the slight crease in your brow can change his mind.

“So, what do you say?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay 
> 
> (a) apologies for the delay in updating -- I love writing these sorts of conversational chapters but they do also tend to take a bit longer to write and edit. that said, I am pretty proud of how this chapter turned out, and I hope you all enjoy it enough to not mind the irregular posting schedule
> 
> (b) my immeasurable gratitude/thanks to [TheBannedAuthor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBannedAuthor/pseuds/TheBannedAuthor) for beta-ing this chapter (especially since this one was like 5.5k words...yikes)
> 
> (c) and--dear _lord_ \--I can't thank you all enough for the comments/kudos/feedback on the last chapter (and the fic in general). you all are so goddamn nice--so much nicer than I deserve--and I'm thrilled beyond words at how many of you seem to enjoy this rambling mess I'm writing. also, I, uh, want to apologize for the fact that it's now been seventeen chapters and I've given you so little romance. I appreciate the patience and I swear I didn't think it was going to be this much of a slow burn when I started. that said, I'm looking forward to seeing where it goes next, and I hope you are too
> 
> (also, if you? want?? you can find me on [tumblr](http://thatsparrow.tumblr.com/))


	18. Chapter 18

“Let me get this fucking straight,” Negan says, tapping one gloved index finger against the side of the steering wheel like he’s measuring out a countdown. “Just so am I abso-fucking-lutely sure we are sitting at an understanding.” He runs a hand over his beard, looking at you with this disbelieving half-smile on his face. “ _You_ are asking _me_ to go against my better fucking judgment, extend this fucking fool’s errand a little longer—despite all the _shit_ you have pulled since we rolled past the Sanctuary gates—and let you stay out here two more days.” He pauses, looking at you carefully. “And in exchange, you actually expect me to believe you’ll — what? Follow my every fucking order? Keep both toes behind the line? Do whatever the fuck it is I ask of you without anything more than a ‘yes sir’?” Negan tilts his head, lifts his brows slightly. “I have all that right?”

“Yeah,” you say, wetting your lips under Negan’s stare. “That about sums it up.”

“Fucking bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, _bullshit_.” Negan says, fixing you with a deliberate stare and mouth sitting in a slight grin that doesn’t really reach his eyes. “Figured you’d be familiar with the concept by now, sweetheart. Need me to spell it out for you?”

“Fuck you — you know that’s not what I was asking.”

Negan lets the corners of his smile turn up a little further, vindication coloring his irises as he looks you over.

“Yeah, I do. You want to know why I call bullshit, sweetheart? Because the idea of you keeping your mouth shut and doing as I say is a fucking _joke_.” Negan shakes his head. “Fuck’s sake — how short do you think my memory is? You think I’m some kind of fucking golden retriever? Throw a tennis ball and I lose my fucking train of thought — fucking _fuck_ that. No, when it comes to the past, I’ve got a memory like a fucking elephant. Get me? I _do not_ fucking forget.” 

He inclines his head towards you, voice low. “And you _really_ think I don’t remember that ‘fuck you’ look of defiance on your face when I told you to get on your knees? That even with a dozen fully-fucking-armed men around you and your life dangling by the thinnest of threads, you stared me down and told me to ‘eat shit’.” Negan lets out a low chuckle, the sound reverberating like bass notes you can feel thrumming in your bones. “Back against the wall and me threatening the lives of the last three people you care about and _still_ — you could _barely_ bring yourself to follow my simplest fucking command.” He leans a little closer, elbow on the armrest as he considers you carefully. “So, sweetheart — the _fuck_ makes you think I’m going to believe you now?”

You look down, because you need a minute to think and because you can’t quite seem to focus on anything specific under the weight of Negan’s stare. Because he’s waiting for an answer, and you need to marshal your thoughts, and you don’t even know what words to offer that might come close to convincing him.

“Look,” you begin slowly, barely finding it in yourself to lift your head back up and meet Negan’s stare. “I get why you’re skeptical. Really, I do. Hell, I’ll be the first one to admit that I haven’t exactly been cooperative—“

“Fucking one way of putting it.”

“—but this is different.” You say, tone firm despite his interruption. “This isn’t about you trying to prove some goddamn point — _this_ isn’t about you trying to _break me_.” It’s an effort to keep meeting his eyes, a struggle like pushing repellant magnets closer together. “And, somehow, I have a hard time believing no one else has fought back when you pulled your ‘get on your knees’ bullshit. Fuck — does it really surprise you that I tried so hard to hold my ground?” You can hear how your own words are starting to heat up, bubbles bursting at the surface like a liquid that’s just hit boiling point.

But you have to slow down. Stop. Take a breath.

Here, anger won’t do you any good.

“Right now, though, I don’t have any reason to fight you,” you continue, hands restless in your lap. “Instead, what I need is a reason for you to trust me—to convince you that it isn’t a mistake to let me keep looking for Chase—and I’m hoping that this can be it. That my word that I’ll do as you say can be enough.” You drop your head, a few beats of a humorless laugh slipping past your teeth like air escaping from a leaking tire. “And if not? Then, fuck — I am shit out of ideas.”

Except that isn’t quite true. You could still grab your bag and just _go_. You were planning to do this on your own from the start — you still have that option. And if you hadn’t lost your knife back in the CVS—hadn’t come so fucking _close_ to losing your life, too—then you think you probably would. Hell, it wouldn’t even really be a question. But you’re not so stubborn that you can’t admit when you’ve made mistakes, when the odds are stacked so firmly against you that you might as well be the double zero on a roulette wheel.

Because, yes, you’ve got that option left — but what would it really mean to take it? You’d be heading out on your own, unarmed, on foot.

You know that story well enough to know the way it ends. Don’t need to skip to the last page to be sure of what the final sentence would read.

Still — you’ll go down that path if it’s the only one Negan gives you.

“Jesus shit, sweetheart,” Negan says after a beat, more to himself than to you, “see if you can look a little _more_ like a kicked puppy…fucking christ. Sad fucking doe eyes and everything — you fucking _kidding me_ with this shit?” He pauses, lets out a sigh thick with exasperation. “Fucking fuck… _fuck_. Alright, let’s play this thing out. Just for fucking kicks.” Drums his fingers against the armrest, mouth drawn in a tight line like he’s chewing on something unpleasant. “Let’s fucking pretend I agree to this bullshit—and don’t misunderstand me, this is a strict fucking hypothetical—but let’s just _say_ I go along with it, and you fuck up. Say we turn around and get back on the road and you break your word. The fuck happens then?”

“Then we go back,” you say, the words unprepared but ready like an impulse. “No argument. I fuck up and we come straight back to the car and we call it.” And you mean it, too. No bullshit, no games. “It’s not like I don’t understand what I’m asking of you. Trust me, I am oh-so-very aware of every uncomfortable fact of this situation. I mean—“ you say with a half-laugh, “—I have blown _every_ chance you have given me, and somehow still have the gall to ask for one more?” You curve your palms around your knees to keep your hands from fidgeting. “If I fuck up, I will be the first one to admit that I shouldn’t be out here. Hell, in that case? I will drive us back to the Sanctuary myself.”

Negan doesn’t say anything at first, just turns his head so he’s staring out the windshield. Leans back into the seat until the leather of his jacket is flush against the fabric, rolls his shoulders like he’s shaking off the weight of something heavy. And it’s a long and painfully quiet minute as he sits there and thinks, wheels turning in his brain that you can see in the twitch of his jaw. Thoughts considered and discarded like sifting through the produce section of a Safeway. A silence so sharp it fucking _hurts_.

You’ve never been good at sitting still. Never really learned how to wait through a lull without feeling the need to fill up the space with your words. And this? Right now? Fuck — you can feel the urge to say something like an itch between your shoulder blades. To keep arguing or to backpedal or just do fucking _anything_ that might elicit some reaction from Negan, that might give you a reprieve from this waiting.

But you’ve made your case as best as you can. Thrown all the words at him that you have to offer. Right now, patience is what’s called for — even if it isn’t easy. So you bite down on your bottom lip to keep your mouth shut. Dig your nails into your jeans to keep your hands motionless.

And you hold, as still as you can manage. Like movement might send him running.

The next move has to be his. 

“Let’s get fucking clear about this, sweetheart,” Negan says at last, tone abrupt as he cuts through the quiet. “Sort out all the fine print, here and now.” He throws out the words like they're an irritation sitting on his tongue. “Because if I say yes to this—and that is a _big_ fucking ‘if’ _—_ it’s going to be on _my_ fucking terms.” Negan pauses, looks over at you like he’s waiting to see if you’ll take issue. If you’ll fuck up right off the bat and make his job that much easier.

Except you can see the slimmest window of opportunity in his words, and you’ll be damned if you let it go that easy.

“Sounds fair.” You say in accession, tone carefully level.

“Fucking see if you still feel that way when I’m done.”

Well, shit. That’s promising.

But, still — no less than you deserve

“We stay out here, means we play by my fucking rules. You fucking follow? Hear my word as fucking gospel, sweetheart.” Negan watches you closely, mouth set in a slight frown. “You’re not just gonna do as I say — you better take my orders as your new laws of nature. I say ‘sit tight’, your feet are fucking glued wherever I leave you. I say ‘run’, you fucking take off like you’ve got hellhounds biting at your heels.” His brows draw together slightly, tone sharp like chipped glass. “I say ‘jump’, I don’t even wanna fucking _hear_ ‘how high?’ — I just better see your boots off the ground.

“And fucking forget an outright argument, sweetheart. You so much as fucking hesitate and we call it quits.” He wets his lips, voice low. “Fucking believe me — I see even a fucking _flicker_ of a fight in those eyes _,_ then I am throwing your ass back in the car and we are _gone_.”

Negan gives you a level stare, tilts his head as he considers your carefully composed expression. “If that all sounds like something you can do, just say ‘yes sir’.”

“Just to clarify — is me not calling you ‘sir’ a deal breaker?”

He raises his brows. “You challenging my orders, sweetheart? Fucking already?”

You return his even look with one of your own. He wants obedience? For Chase’s sake, you can play his game. So you still the lines of your face until they’re smooth as glass, even going so far as to dip your head slightly in deference.

“No, sir.”

There’s a pause for a beat as Negan considers you — like he’s waiting for some break in your composure or listening for the sound of sarcasm in your voice. But you hold—because the seriousness of the situation is something you can’t mistake—until you hear Negan’s slight exhale that you take as a sign of his assent.

“Well, ain’t that just fucking peachy.” He isn’t really talking to you, but you can still hear the dry note in his tone clear across the car, can see the straight set of his jaw as he scrubs his hands over his face. “Fucking shit. _Fuck_.” Without looking your way, Negan says, “There should be a map of the area in the glove compartment. See if you can find it, sweetheart — if you’re really gonna make me keep looking for loverboy, might as well be fucking _smart_ about it.” 

You bite back any amusement you’re feeling at his words—because, honestly, the idea of you _making_ Negan do anything is one of the funnier things you’ve heard in a while—and settle for clicking open the glove compartment latch, sifting past a small first aid kit and packages of plastic utensils until you see the folded road map. 

“What are you looking for?” You ask as you pass the creased paper over the gear shift towards where his outstretched fingertips are waiting.

Negan glances your way as he unfolds the map on the steering wheel, smoothing out the wrinkles as his eyes drift over the routes spiderwebbing across the page like multicolored veins. “Gonna make a wild fucking guess and suppose that loverboy ran off from the Sanctuary with the bare essentials and fuck all else. Likely that he’s going to need new supplies in a hurry—if he’s even still fucking breathing—so figure it wouldn’t hurt to see what else is in the area.” Negan pauses from where his finger has been tracing paths along the paper. “Got a problem with any of that?”

“No,” you say, quicker than intended when you hear that questioning edge in Negan’s words.

He looks up, one eyebrow raised.

_Fucking really_.

“No, _sir_.” 

His eyes shift back down to the map, head lowered but not so that you miss the slight smile he’s wearing. “That’s what I fucking thought.”

_Ass_.

“Looks like there are a couple smaller roads back behind the town we just left,” Negan continues, eyes skimming over the page. “No way to tell for sure which direction loverboy went—because fucking _of course_ there isn’t—but if he cut through the woods after burying the dead girl, he could’ve ended up following one of these trails. Might as well start there.” There’s a unreadable look on his face as he closes the map, brows drawn together as the pads of his fingers form neat folds along the creases. He hands it back over to you before starting the car, wearing an expression of slight disbelief like he still can’t understand why he agreed to something with such low odds of success.

And, honestly? You can’t figure it out either.

But you’ve ended up with an outcome better than you could’ve hoped for. No fucking _way_ you’re going to risk it now by questioning such a stroke of good luck.

Car in drive, Negan pulls a U-turn, steering wheel spinning beneath his fingertips until you’re back facing the way you came, tires running parallel to the double yellow lines. And there’s a moment where you wonder if Negan might just say “fuck it” to the whole thing — turn the car back around and keep going until the Sanctuary is the only thing in sight. 

It’s a reflexive gesture, to let your fingers rest near the latch of the passenger door in case he changes his mind.

But he doesn’t — even if you’re sure the same thought is on his mind. He doesn’t, and soon, you’re watching the trees outside flicker past in a steady stream of blurred greens and yellows. And it’s hard not to be aware of how fucking _ridiculous_ this whole endeavor is. That you’re not just looking for a needle in a haystack, but a needle in a goddamn _ocean_ of haystacks. Or that the needle might not even be a needle anymore, but shifted and reshaped into another fucking piece of hay.

It’s hard not to feel hopeless — that whatever window you had to find Chase has been slammed shut and painted over and you’re wasting your time for fucking _nothing_.

You don’t say anything though, don’t give Negan any indication that you’re starting to feel as skeptical about this endeavor as he is. Instead, you lean back into your seat, prop one boot up on the dash, thoughts drifting as you stare out the windshield.

“Shoes off.” Negan says.

You glance over in his direction, let your boot slide obligingly from the dashboard.

“Yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay SO -- over a full goddamn _month_ later (oh man, I am so sorry) it's a new chapter! hey!! happy holidays!!! 
> 
> (but oh boy, I am sorry for how long it's been. real life got in the way and then writer's block got in the way and this chapter was such a struggle, I probably ended up writing another thousand words that got deleted or changed in rewrites)
> 
> so thank you so much for your patience, and I really hope it doesn't disappoint!
> 
> once again, I owe innumerable thanks to [TheBannedAuthor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBannedAuthor/pseuds/TheBannedAuthor) for being such an incredible beta (can I say thanks again? I'm gonna say thanks again -- thank you so much!!)
> 
> and thank you, thank you all for all the kudos and comments on the last chapter. you all are way too nice to me, so much nicer than I deserve, and I hope you all are having a great holiday season!


	19. Chapter 19

Your shadow is a smudge beneath your shoes when you get out of the car, a black brushstroke of paint sitting under your boots as you stand in the weeds on the shoulder of the road. After following the same two-lane highway for the past fifteen minutes or so—blindly trusting Negan's intuition after he’d turned off the main road—the two of you had pulled off the cracked blacktop and parked the Ford under the shadow of the trees bordering the pavement. By now, you figure the serpentine stretch of tarmac must have wound its way behind the town you’d left this morning, putting you at the intersection of—god willing—the path Chase might have taken after he left.

That is, if he even made it out at all.

“Alright, _sir_ ," you say as you lean back against the closed passenger door, throwing the words over your shoulder to where Negan is pulling Lucille from the backseat. “What’s the plan?”

“Best start praying to whatever god you believe in, sweetheart.”

You turn on your heel, letting your elbows rest on the roof of the sedan as you look Negan’s way.

“That an order?”

“Consider it a friendly fucking suggestion,” he says, glancing up briefly to meet your eyes. “Given that Plan A is to comb through miles of woods and back roads for some dumb fuck who does not fucking _want_ to be found, I’d say praying would be a smart first step.”

And you don't really have a response to that, so you settle for checking the gun at your waist and the knife at your—

“Oh, _goddammit_.”

“Fuck’s the matter?”

You look up at Negan, giving him a smile that has nothing to do with amusement and everything to do with your own thoughtlessness.

“My _knife_ ,” you say, frustration sharp in your words like broken glass buried in a sandbox. “I dropped it back in the CVS. Fucking of _course._ ”

“What about the gun?”

“Still works fine, far as I can tell. Out of bullets, though.”

Negan gives you a brief nod before rounding the car to pop the trunk, pulling the supply bag from the back and dropping it at your feet.

“There’s a box of ammo in the bag — might as well reload while we’ve got the time.” He flashes an easy smile as you kneel down to unzip the duffel. “Surprisingly enough, that gun ain’t actually too fucking useful without any bullets.”

“Well, shit. You don’t say.”

You’ve got your head lowered and fingers busy reloading the gun as you respond, not even bothering to look up at Negan as you toss out the words on an impulse. And with his face out of your frame of vision, there’s a moment where you have to wonder if your sarcasm just crossed another line. But then you hear him let out a slight laugh—that low, back-of-the-throat chuckle that spills out like sap dripping from a maple—and it’s a reflex to let the corners of your mouth turn up as well, a slight smile sitting on your face like a sideways parentheses.

With the gun reloaded, you zip the bag shut and pull yourself back to your feet, tucking the metal piece into the waistband of your jeans.

“Ready to go?” You ask, loading the supply bag back into the trunk and clicking the latch closed.

“Just about,” Negan says, setting Lucille down against the side of the car before his hands reach down to his belt buckle.

“…For the record,” you say, tone dry like blistered sand as Negan undoes the metal at the front of his jeans. “When I asked if you were ‘ready to go’, that’s not _really_ what I was referring to.”

“Mind out of the gutter, sweetheart,” he says, looking up at you with an amused expression as he pulls the leather out of his belt loops until he’s unhooked the knife holster hanging at his hip. As easy as anything else, he extends the sheath in your direction, handle pointing towards you.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a knife,” Negan says, one eyebrow quirked. “Didn’t think that part would need elaborating.”

“It’s _your_ knife,” you say, brows drawn together slightly in response. “Why are you giving it to me?”

“Think of it more as a loan than a gift.”

“Don’t you—fuck, I don’t know—need it?” The words feel hollow as soon as you say them, especially with walker blood puddling on the cement around Lucille's barbed-wire barrel. Still, this is _Negan's_ knife you're talking about, and you can't even begin to reconcile the image of that weapon in your hand.

Negan rolls his eyes, setting the blade and holster on the back of the sedan as he rethreads the leather of his belt back through the loops at his waist. “Fuck’s _sake_ — listen, sweetheart, we both know that out here, you only pull a gun when you’ve hit your very worst case scenario. I’ve got Lucille while you’ve got one handful of ‘jack’ and another handful of ‘shit’. You need a knife, I have a spare. It’s not fucking _complicated_.”

“You sure—“

“You know, all of this sounds an awful lot like you questioning me. That what’s happening right now? You really gonna throw a fit and blow your shot over me trying to do you a good turn?” Negan shakes his head slightly, wearing an exasperated look you were sure was reserved for someone looking after a three-year-old.

“No, sir,” you say, tone hesitant but compliant as your fingers close around the hilt of the knife.

“Fucking better,” Negan says, picking up Lucille from where he'd left her leaning against the tail lights. Feeling like a kid playing dress-up, you weave the holster onto your own belt, painfully aware of the almost too-heavy weight of the blade at your hip and how laughably oversized it is on you, built more for gutting something feral or fitting into the palm of someone like Negan. Still, you can’t deny there being a certain comfort in that serrated edge—sharp like sharks’ teeth—sitting just within hand’s reach.

“Now that we’ve got that fucking ordeal over with,” Negan says, swinging Lucille up onto his shoulder, “time to get moving.”

“All joking aside, what is the plan here?”

“Jokes aside? Christ, sweetheart — the fuck is the fun in that?”

You don’t respond, choosing instead to fix Negan with an unamused look.

“Always so serious,” he says, not entirely under his breath. “Well, seeing as how this has all been one big fucking game of guesswork so far, why the fuck stop now?” He looks up and down the road for a moment, consideration lingering briefly in the lines of his face.

“Here’s the way I figure it — assuming loverboy headed out of town moving away from the direction of the Sanctuary, assuming he headed in a relatively straight line, _and_ fucking assuming nothing killed him on the way, he should’ve ended up roughly _here_. But all bets are fucking off whether he decided to keep going through the woods or stick to the road.” Negan frowns slightly, exhales like he’s still trying to make sense of his thoughts. “Current plan—or as close to a plan as I can come up with—we’ll check the woods and see if we can find some sign of him. If not? Keep heading down the road and hope we pass him. We still come up with fucking nothing? Stop the car, rinse, fucking repeat.”

It hits you at that moment how completely fucking _pointless_ this is. Honestly. Because you can’t come up with a plan better than the one Negan just proposed and because you’re no damn tracker and, short of a sign in neon spray paint, you’d never recognize a trail Chase might’ve left through the woods. Truth is, you’re running pretty damn low on hope right now, your reserves of optimism like a gas gauge ticking steadily towards empty.

But, however slim it might be, there _is_ still a chance of finding him.

And—fuck it—you’ll hold fast to that slender string even as it frays like unraveling thread in your palm. Wrap your fingers around the last scraps of optimism you can see, even as you gain nothing more than a handful of paper cuts.

“All sounds good to me,” you say, wearing a smile that doesn’t reflect how you feel. Tone cautiously light because fuck letting Negan know that all his negativity and realism might be getting to you. “You ready?”

“Might as well get fucking to it.”

And, hand hovering loosely at your side, Negan’s figure the overwhelming factor in your periphery, the two of you head side-by-side into the trees.

 

* * *

 

Predictably, the next few hours turn up less than fucking _nothing_.

Which, all things considered, is about what you expected. Chase's trail went cold the minute you chased the wrong voice down the wrong road, and ever since, you’ve been clinging to a train of reasoning that amounts to little more than finely woven bullshit. He didn’t leave a trail because he doesn’t _want_ to be found. He didn’t bother with breadcrumbs because he’s more than ready to lose his way — because as far as he’s concerned, his story might as well end in a witch’s oven.

At this point, who are you really still searching for? Who is this really about?

Are you actually out here for Chase, or are you doing this for yourself?

The sun is starting to sink like a deflating balloon when you reach a signpost for another town a few miles up the road, the first indication of anything established since you’d gotten back on the highway. And it’s as close to a lead as the universe is willing to offer, more of a sign than any of the crushed leaves and broken branches you’d tried to pretend to make sense of when you and Negan had explored the woods.

“What do you think?” You ask Negan as the Ford passes the sign, metallic backing shrinking quickly in the rearview.

“Guess it wouldn’t hurt to check things out,” he says, tone unreadable. “If nothing else, sundown’s a little too fucking close for comfort and we need somewhere to hole up for the night.” His eyes flick down to the clock on the dash, one hand coming up absently to trace a line over his jaw. “Can’t do jack for loverboy tonight, but we should have time to find something a little fucking better than sleeping in the fucking car.”

“Not like I’m complaining,” you say, taking the time to stretch the stiffness from your shoulders. “I can honestly say I’ve spent enough nights in shitty backseats or the goddamn trunk to last a lifetime or two.”

“Fucking amen.”

 

* * *

 

The shadows are starting to stretch a little too long across the pavement when you finally reach the town, the main road cutting through a small strip of quiet downtown as the sun finishes its final descent below the trees. And it looks quiet enough—empty streets and abandoned cars parked against the curb and the occasional silhouette or two of a walker—but you’ve been running these lines long enough to keep your guard up as the wheels of the Ford ease over the tarmac. Not a thought but a habit to keep your eyes skimming across the storefronts, ears tuned for the sound of an undead cluster hidden down an alley, muscles tensed and ready for the worst.

But things _seem_ alright, and even if you know how deceptive that can be, it’s getting late and you and Negan need to start making some quick decisions. Keeping close to the main road, he turns the car down a side street and parks parallel to one of the buildings, windows un-shattered and walls mostly free of bloodstains.

“We’ll head in through the back door,” Negan says as he turns off the ignition, inclining his head towards the brick facade. “Don’t want to spend the whole damn night clearing the building, but it looks secure enough so fingers-fucking-crossed it doesn’t take too long to deal with whatever shit is waiting inside. Grab the supply bag from the trunk and follow my lead.”

“Yes sir,” you say, voice slightly absent as your eyes skate a restless back-and-forth over the building, tracing a path between the windows while you look for those familiar signs of trouble. But the shades seem undisturbed and you can’t spot anything worse than a thick layer of grime and you find yourself a little less tense as you climb out onto the sidewalk, fingers hooked around your backpack straps. You can see Negan's silhouette as you make your way to the trunk, pulling Lucille and his own shit from the backseat as you unlatch the back and hoist the duffel over your shoulder. Hanging back a few paces, you follow his footsteps across the sidewalk and over to a side door set into the bricks, playing lookout as he works at the hinges stuck fast with rust. And then the door is creaking open—a little louder than you’d like—and it’s nothing but dim shadows and faint outlines and the beam from Negan’s flashlight cutting through the dark like the bright white warning of a lighthouse.

“Ready?” He asks over his shoulder, voice low, adjusting his grip on Lucille as your hand drops down to the hilt of your borrowed knife.

“Ready enough.” You answer in a similarly quiet tone, eyes glancing up only briefly to meet his.

“Then tally-fucking-ho.”

And with that, there’s nowhere to go but forward.

It’s not the first time you’ve had to do something like this, but you wouldn’t still be breathing if you’d let repetition erase your instinct for fear — if you’d become numb to the sensation of standing on this tightrope. Staying alive has never been anything less than a balancing act, and you’ve seen too many slip off that wire from not giving the undead their due.

Cities don’t get decimated by an inconvenience. The whole fucking _world_ doesn’t fall by the hands or teeth of something inconsequential. There will always be so many more of them than there are of you, and the day you forget that is the same day you pull the pin of a grenade and drop the explosive at your feet. At that point, dying is only a matter of time.

And you can feel that same sharp edge of uncertainty in your stomach as you tiptoe on bloodstained boots into the shadows, that familiar bitterness on the back of your tongue. But you’ve got the broad shoulders of Negan’s frame standing in front of you like a battering ram, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel a little more secure—Jesus, a little more _safe_ —with him there.

You can’t tell whether it’s funny or unsettling, that you could put _Negan_ and _safe_ in the same sentence without the trace of a joke. And, honestly, you’re not sure you really want to find out which one it is.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take long to sweep the two-story building, for you and Negan to trace a Pac-Man pattern through the back offices of the small accounting firm, taking out a few walkers still outfitted in their pencil skirts and button downs, knotted ties hanging loose around withered necks. But other than a low-lying feeling of sadness—an occasional sting at the sight of family photos pinned up on cubicle walls—the building offers no surprises and soon the two of you are setting up camp in the break room on the second floor. And as far as small-town break rooms go, it doesn't offer much — walls painted an unexciting shade of taupe and secondhand appliances on the Formica countertops and coupons pinned to the refrigerator with cheap magnets.

Still, you’re thankful for its relative cleanliness. Even more thankful for the windows offering a vantage onto the street, and for the couch sitting along one of the walls, weathered cushions parallel to a couple half-empty vending machines. And with a couple battery-powered lanterns and flashlights suffusing the room with a dim glow, you could almost call it homey.

“Got any preference for first or second watch?” Negan asks after the two of you eat a simple dinner, stretched out on the sofa with his boots propped up on one of the armrests.

“You’re really giving me a choice?” You say, tone skeptical as you sink down into one of the chairs around the break room table.

Negan gives you an easy smile in response, sitting up just enough to shrug out of the sleeves of his jacket. “Not like it does me any good if you pass out halfway through your shift. Remember, sweetheart, my first interest is always in keeping myself alive.”

“At least you're consistent,” you say, answering the amusement on Negan's face with a wry look of your own. “I’ll take first shift then.”

“Fine by me.”

It’s quiet as the two of you settle in — you cleaning walker gut off the knife blade with take-out napkins from one of the drawers, Negan shifting slightly on the couch cushions.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” You've still got your head down as you throw your question to the room, almost like you're talking to the blade in your hand rather than the man on the sofa.

Negan doesn’t bother turning to look your way, but you can see that half-smile curving up the corners of his mouth at your words. “Shoot.”

“It’s not like you really want to be out here, right?”

He tilts his head in your direction, tone even as ever. “Fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

It’s a thought that’s been sticking in your mind for the past couple hours, a curiosity crystallized at the sight of Negan’s tall frame stretched out over a too-small makeshift bed.

“It’s just…” you break off, eyes dropping down as you try and figure out how to phrase it. “You can’t be enjoying this — you can’t be _wanting_ to put up with this shit. You don't, do you? Wouldn't you rather be back at the Sanctuary?”

Negan props himself up on one arm, gives you a steady look that’s equal parts patronizing and exasperated.

“What are you trying to ask here, sweetheart?” He fixes you with a level stare, eyebrows arching up slightly. “You're really wondering if I’d rather be _here —_ freezing my fucking balls off on a beaten-up couch with more stains than a motel bedspread, or back in my apartment — lying on silk sheets in a king-sized bed getting blown by one of my wives.” He inclines his head towards you. “That the question you need answering?”

You duck your head for a moment, sure there’s a slight flush in your cheeks as you meet Negan’s amused look. “I mean, I probably wouldn’t have phrased it in exactly those terms — but, yeah?”

“You honestly telling me you cannot figure that one out for yourself?”

“Then why _are_ you here?” You ask, the words blurting out before you can think better of them. It's tempting to look away, but you make it a point to keep your mouth set in a firm line, to meet Negan's eyes as he watches you with an expression you can’t quite parse.

“Curiosity is a dangerous fucking thing, sweetheart,” Negan says at last, the weight of his gaze heavy as you shift slightly in your seat, one knee pulled up to your chest. “One of these days it might get you into trouble.”

“Is that day today?”

It's heads or tails whether he'll answer with anger or amusement, and you feel nothing but relief as he lets out a slight laugh at your words, the tension dissipating from the room like water slipping down the drain. And you can see him smiling, seeming in spite of himself, as one hand comes up to massage his temple.

“Fucking christ — you do not know when to quit.”

You're tempted to say something else, but you wait, almost certain that Negan's got a few more words waiting on his tongue. And you can't tell what it is about this moment—whether it's the lack of adrenaline in his system or the simple fact of having his feet up that's got him so relaxed—but you're somehow sure that you haven't burned through his reserves of patience just yet.

As if acting in response to your thoughts, Negan pulls himself upright, back propped up against the armrest and shoes sliding to the carpet as he shifts his body until he's facing you. "Do not fucking take this to mean that I value your persistence, or some shit," he says, giving you a disgruntled look that doesn't feel genuine, "but purely in the interest of getting you to shut up so I can enjoy a few fucking moments of peace and quiet — fine, I'll give you two reasons why I'm out here in Bumfuck, Nowhere rather than sitting pretty back at the Sanctuary.

"Reason number one, sweetheart — I'm still here because I am a man of my word. And that doesn't just extend to bargains or threats with communities who have more canned goods than common sense — no, that holds even for two-bit deals with stubborn fucking assholes who don't know well-enough to stop fighting, even when they have got nothing left."

Indignation rises like a reflex in your throat, but you're the one who asked for his words. You don't get to bite just because you don't like what he's offering in his right hand. And you're sure he can see the way your shoulders tense under your jacket—because he's Negan, and because the smiling bastard always seems to read you better than the big, bold text of a billboard—but he doesn't address your reaction, letting the moment go with nothing more than a half-smile and continuing on that same train of thought.

"I'm still here because I made you a deal and—like your very own fairy fucking godmother—gave you three days to get shit done and because your time isn't up just yet. And while I have not and will not keep it a secret that I find this whole fucking endeavor an exceptional waste of time, as long as you decide to stay out here and haven't hit the deadline, then I am not going fucking anywhere."

Something about his words isn't entirely satisfying, but you know you're lucky to get whatever scraps of truth he's offering.

"And the second reason?"

At that, the half-smile on his face widens into a full-blown grin.

"Plain-and-fucking-simple, sweetheart — because fucking _shit_ , do I want that favor you're offering."

You can't help but feel a little hesitant under the look he's giving you, one that suggests he knows something you don't, like he's read ahead to the end of this chapter and is laughing at the punch line you can't see coming. "You do know I don't really have anything to give you, right?"

Negan just lets that smile linger, the one that always manages to stir goosebumps from your skin. "Wouldn't be so sure of that."

"Should I take that to mean you've already got something in mind?" You want to deliver your words in his same easy tone, but you can't help the slight furrow in your brow or the uncertain edge in your voice.

"Not about to start giving away all my secrets, sweetheart," Negan says, shifting on the sofa until he's lying down again, one arm resting under his head. "Let's just say I've got a couple ideas."

"Anything I should be worried about?" You don't really expect him to respond with any kind of honesty, but your common-sense can't hold back the questions that curiosity has left on your tongue. Besides, by now you know Negan well enough to be cautious of the thoughts he's hiding behind his Cheshire cat smile.

"Guess that depends on what might give you cause to worry."

He's not giving away anything in his tone, but you can't help the places your mind goes at his words — the train of thought you take to all the worst things he could ask of you.

Then—surprising you in the most embarrassing and unwelcome of ways—to the things he could ask for that you're not entirely sure you'd object to.

As if Negan can see the medley of images in your mind's eye like he's flipping through hotel channels, he smiles up at the ceiling. "So tell me, sweetheart — the fuck is it that's got you so wound up? What do you think I want from you that's put such a twist in your panties?" You can hear the grin in his words clear across the room, the one that seems to suggest he knows _exactly_ what's made you fall so silent.

You can feel the flush in your cheeks burn a little hotter, ducking your head even though Negan's not even looking your way. "On second thought, I don't think I want to know what you've got planned," you say, hearing his all-too-familiar laugh filling the corners of the room.

"Not a fan of being on the receiving end of so many questions?" Negan asks after his amusement subsides. "Well, fuck — now who's not playing fair?"

"Hold the phone — _you've_ always gotten the option of not having to give me a straight answer," you say, the corners of your mouth turning up slightly as you lift your head to face him, grateful as anything for the change of subject. "Don't see why I should have to follow different rules."

Negan tilts his head until he's looking your way, a spark of amusement in his eyes you're sure is mirrored in your own. "Think we both know things are not _nearly_ as fucking interesting that way."

"Speak for yourself," you say, still smiling while you give him a shrug. "Personally, I think I've had enough interest to last a lifetime."

It's clear that Negan's got another rapid-fire response waiting at your words, but at that moment you both hear the sound of something knocking against one of the storefronts down the street, and you never get to hear whatever one-liner he had sitting on his tongue. And it's not like the walker is any kind of a threat, but the noise is enough to remind you of why you're here — that you're not trading jokes surrounded by cheap appliances and dusty carpets because you enjoy Negan's company. Picking up the knife from the table and tossing the blood-streaked napkins into a trashcan, you holster the metal at your hip and shift one of the chairs to a spot near the window.

"It's still early enough," you say to Negan, "but all things considered, I'd rather get an hour or two more sleep if possible. You mind calling it a night?"

He gives a noncommittal shrug, letting your abrupt change of pace go unremarked as he eases off the couch and moves to dim the lanterns so the room quickly fades to black. "Not like my day was any easier than yours that I'd object to a little more shuteye." He settles back against the cushions, his figure little more than a shadowy silhouette in the dark. "If there's nothing life-threatening before my shift, feel free to act like I've got a 'Do Not Disturb' sign tattooed across my forehead — understood?"

"Yes, sir," you say, taking the seat at your post by the window, flashlight in hand and shades separated just enough that you've got a decent view of the streets. And it doesn't take long for the rhythms of Negan's breathing to change, mellowed out into the steady white noise you'd grown familiar with from the nights you'd spent on the road with Marie and Chase and Luke and Wendy. Hell — with only the sounds of quiet inhales and exhales for company and your hand hovering close to the hilt at your belt, you could almost forget  where you are or who you're with. Could let your mind fall back to a simpler time when you knew the shape of your companions' characters as well as you knew the calluses on your fingertips. When the question of trust wasn't such a complicated fucking thing.

Because that's the heart of the matter that's got you so goddamn confused—the pit at the middle of the peach you've been so careful to chew around—isn't it? That you think you might be starting to be changing your opinion of Negan in ways you're nowhere close to comfortable thinking about.

That— _fuck_ —you might even be starting to _trust_ him.

As soon as you give freedom to even the notion of the thought, you feel like such a fucking _fool_. Sinking back until your spine is following the curve of the molded plastic, you're tempted to shake your head at yourself — because you should know better than to let your better judgment be swayed by a few easy words and a charming smile. Because you've heard the stories that survivors at the Sanctuary tell about Negan, and if even a tenth of them are true, they should be enough to convince you that no small gesture he makes is worth your confidence. After all, he said it himself, didn't he? And said it more than once, too — that his first and only priority is keeping himself alive, full fucking stop. No room for anyone else in that kind of an equation.

And as for saving your life earlier? Hell — all you can assume is that, right now, you're worth more to him alive than dead. You should know better than to mistake his self-interest for anything other than what it is.

They're uncomfortable thoughts, but not illogical ones, and you'd be deserving of an early grave if you ignored them just because you don't like the way the sharp edges of the truth sit in your stomach.

Rolling your shoulders like you're trying to dislodge the discomfort that's weighing on you, you prop up one foot on the edge of your chair and return your full focus to the world outside the window. Fucking _enough_ wondering about the man stretched out on the couch — why don't you remember what you're goddamn priorities should be and settle for making it through the night.

 

* * *

 

It's earlier than you expect when you feel Negan's hand on your shoulder, when you hear his quiet whispers urging you awake not long after you'd changed shifts. You need a few moments to blink your eyes open, vision adjusting slowly to the dim shadows and not helping you make sense of the expression on Negan's face.

"What's—" But your words are cut short when he rests a heavy hand over your mouth, shushing you with a slight shake of his head, the calluses of his palm rough against your lips.

"Best if we stay quiet, understand?" Negan says in his low voice, waiting for your silent nod of assent before he removes his hand. You shift until you're sitting upright, eyes following him closely as he eases his way back to the window, peering briefly between the blinds.

"What's going on?" You ask, mirroring his quiet tone as you start lacing up your boots.

"Nothing good." He says, that sharp edge in his words evident even in his whispering. "Think you're gonna want to make sure that gun's fully loaded, sweetheart — looks like we've got trouble."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> briefly:
> 
> (a) thanks once again (and always) to my magnificent and invaluable beta @[TheBannedAuthor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBannedAuthor)
> 
> (b) also an enormous thank-you to everyone who's left comments/kudos -- those emails from ao3 are high on my list of favorite things and I'm just?? fuck, just so happy and so flattered whenever I hear that someone's enjoying this slow-burn mess. ( boy how dy i am doing _such_ an inadequate job of voicing my appreciation but I hope the sentiment is clear )
> 
> ( if the next update is a little slow, then I am sorry in advance for having ended this chapter on a cliffhanger. )


	20. Chapter 20

By now, you know some of the worst ways to wake up — fuck, you've experienced most of them firsthand. The sound of mud-streaked shoes tripping a clumsy trail over browned pine needles or chipped fingernails clawing against the pitted glass of backseat van windows like a 3 AM alarm clock. That sharp jerk from sleep with sweat damp against your skin and lingering nightmares spinning like carousel horses in your subconscious.

You know how it feels to be afraid of opening your eyes. You know how it feels to wonder whether every night will be your last.

But there's something about the still set of Negan's shoulders and the sharp furrow in his brow and a situation that leaves even him speechless that's sending a frostbite chill through your bones in a way nothing else has. He hasn't moved from the window yet, fingers parting the blinds just enough to give him a view onto the street, mouth set in a thin line, and you don't know what he could be seeing that has him at such a loss for words. Questions itch under your skin, but you can feel the gravity of this moment like an extra weight on your shoulders and you know that Negan will start giving you answers when he's found the right words. When the whirlwind of his thoughts have slowed and the dust has settled enough that the shape of the situation is visible.

"Not trying to alarm you, sweetheart," he says at last, voice low and tone unreadable. "But I think we might be fucked."

You don't know what words you might have been waiting for—what reassurance you were hoping to receive—but that sure as _shit_ wasn't it.

 _Fuck_.

"Gonna need a little more than that," you say after a beat, frowning as you double-knot your laces and count the bullets of your borrowed gun. "Is it walkers? People? A fucking tornado? What aren't you telling me?"

"Just to fucking clarify," Negan says, turning from the window to look your way. "I tell you to grab your gun, and your first thought is _tornado_?"

"Third thought, actually," you shoot back, "and quit stalling. What's going on?"

"We've got company — living, breathing, and armed to the fucking _teeth_." Negan gives you a humorless smile. "Took their merry fucking time getting into position and made damn sure we didn't see them until they wanted us to. Planning like that generally isn't the first step of someone throwing a fucking welcome party."

It doesn't take a big leap of logic to know that he must be speaking from experience.

"Do you think we can get out of here or should we wait for them to make their move?"

But before he's got a chance to respond—to do anything more than suck in a breath between his teeth—there's the sound of a gunshot splitting the silence like a crack of lightning across the sky.

"Think they just fucking did."

A noise like that has never been the herald of anything good, never been anything but the messenger of shit about to _hit the fucking fan_. Even so, you figure it must have only been a warning shot because you can't hear the sound of shattered glass or the familiar _thud_ of a body falling to the pavement. And you know you've guessed right when you and Negan ease your way over the window, shifting aside the blinds to see a woman standing with both toes lined up on the double-yellow like it's a balance beam, her arm extended upwards and fingers curled around the grip of a gun like a deity getting ready to summon hellfire from the heavens, a crowd of maybe seven or eight spread out in a rough semi-circle behind her.

"Rise and fucking shine, you sorry piece of shit!" The window's closed but her words carry through the glass like it's little better than Saran wrap. "I know you're up there, Negan, and it's time to wake the fuck up, because guess goddamn _what_.

"Today is _your_ fucking judgment day — and me? Oh, I'm one _hell_ of an unforgiving god."

She lets her arm fall down to her side like the silver flash of a dropped guillotine blade. From here, window blinds half in the way, you can't really make out the details of her face—can't catch much more than the sight of tan skin around the gun's grip and the faded brown leather of a bomber jacket and dark curls cropped close to her skull—but you wouldn't be surprised to find a sharp edge of anger in her eyes to match the  _fuck you_ tone of her voice.

"Now, before we get started, I'm going to need you to do me a favor — whichever one of these rooms your cowardly ass is hiding in, I'm going to need you to pull back the blinds and give me a good look at your fucking dirtbag face. See, I've waited a long goddamn time for my moment in the spotlight and I'm not in the mood to waste my words until I'm sure you're listening. So go ahead, pull back the curtain," she tilts her head, considering the building's facade. "Show me the pathetic old fuck hiding behind it."

"Should we…?" You ask Negan, keeping your words quiet as you shift to look at his profile. But he doesn't move, doesn't react, not right away.

"Feel like playing hard to get?" The woman calls up, shrugging her shoulders and exchanging glances with the backup standing behind her.  "Fair enough — but let me take this chance to remind you that there are fucking _fifteen_ of us covering this street and your car around the corner, and a grand total of _two_ of you. So if you feel like lifting the shades is a deal breaker—if you'd rather keep hiding like the fucking weakling piece-of-shit we both know you are—then be my guest. We can play that game to the finish and see how long you two hold out up there. Spoilers: you don't win that fight."

"Negan—" you say, voice low and a slight urgency in your tone.

"Yeah, sweetheart, I fucking know," he says, tension carved into his shoulders and the sharp line of his jaw as he reaches for the curtain string and tugs up the blinds.

"Look at that!" She says as the plastic shades fishtail their way up over the window. "Look who decided to start thinking with his upstairs brain and make the right fucking call." She raises the hand with the gun and gives a slight wave in your direction, her stance somehow mocking and furious in one. "Good to see you again, Negan. I don't think you got my name last time, so let me take this moment to introduce myself — I'm Tori. You know, I'd been hoping for another face-to-face for a good long while — guess my luck had to turn around at some point." She lowers her hand, her tone sharpening. "But you? Oh, it gives me a great deal of satisfaction to say that your luck has finally run the fuck out.

"Now maybe you remember me," she calls at the window, "but I'm gonna assume that you don't. Because I figure you're fucking sadist enough that the worst day of my life was just another Tuesday for you — that you've put enough poor fucks down on their knees and eenie-meenie-miney-moe'd your way down that line that, by now, we must all blur together. That you've played Babe Ruth with so many skulls that it's all just one big fucking blurry polaroid of bone shards and brain matter. But you wanted that to be a day none of us would forget, and—hey—you _got_ your fucking wish. Because thanks to you, I've got that moment running on loop in my head like some sorry asshole working a projector with only one film reel, so you know what, Negan? Let's you and I take a fucking stroll down the shitshow of my memory lane.

"Because when I kill you, I want to make _damn sure_ you know why."

You haven't moved since Negan raised the blinds, haven't had the presence of mind to do much more than shoot the occasional glance in his direction as he listens, his jaw set and expression impassive. There's a building's worth of beams and plaster between you and the people on the street, but even so, you can feel a new kind of fear taking hold of your nerves like weeds burrowing through sidewalk cracks — even through the window, you can hear the tempered rage in Tori's voice like the shift of tectonic plates getting ready to send the whole fucking world shaking. She wants Negan dead like nothing else matters, and looking at the way the chips are stacked, you're ready to believe that it's not so much a question of 'if' but of 'when'.

And you want to ask him if she's right — if he's killed often and carelessly enough that all the bodies kaleidoscope together into spinning shades of red. But you think you already know the answer, and you're not sure you really want to find out if you're right.

"So I'm willing to bet that our story kicks off the same as any others — that it wasn't the first or last time you ran through those lines and played the part of the big-dick-swinging motherfucker. No more than a dozen homes surrounded by a makeshift fence when you and your fellow fuckheads rolled up and threatened to knock it the fuck down — not far off Route 260 near Woodland Hills, ringing any bells yet? You wanted our guns, and you wanted our supplies, and you wanted us breaking our backs for you and your men like your very own hive of worker bees. And we said no—because _fuck you_ for thinking we survived just so we could wear your chains—and apparently when you were terrorizing your preschool playground, you never learned how to take _no_ for an answer.

"It was eight of us on a supply run next time your trucks showed up — our very own wake-up of steel-toed boots and mouthfuls of gravel and dirt and those bright fucking construction lights like you were staging the fucking Thunderdome. Put us on our knees because it doesn't take knowing you for more than five minutes to figure that you like it best when everyone's at the same level as your dick, and ran through that bullshit speech about the way the world works and who wears the crown on this chessboard."

Tori pauses for a moment, and you think you can make out the sight of her fingers shifting around the gun, like she's debating about unloading the whole goddamn clip into the glass right here and now.

"I was kneeling next to my best friend Peter when you landed on him with that bargain-bin Louisville Slugger, grabbed him by the shoulder and lined him up like you were setting up a game of tee-ball. And then you made me watch as you beat him into something unrecognizable — took one of the best people this world had left to offer and turned that fucking kind and brilliant and thoughtful mind into fucking spaghetti. Nobody deserved to see this thing through more than him, and you beat him to death for a dozen cans of alphabet soup and a couple boxes of ammo.

"God — _fuck you, Negan_. He didn't deserve to die, but heaven knows that you do—that you've got it coming more than anybody else—and that's exactly what's going to happen."

She falls silent for a moment, but you can't find it in yourself to move, to speak, to even fucking _blink_. Thing is, you'd never been under the impression that Negan was a good man, but it isn't until this moment—until you hear the volcanic rage of grief in Tori's voice—that you realize how little you know him, that he's carrying a backlog of unpaid sins you can't understand. But whatever you're feeling right now, it's not just about Negan, because her words are hitting some specific nerve of your own in a way you don't expect, in a way that fucking _stings_. Like she's pulled back the tarp on some sharp-edged Pandora's box you didn't even realize you were carrying.

But whatever's inside, you don't have the freedom to pull back the lid right now, so you push aside whatever lingering feelings of unease are sitting under your skin and return your focus to the situation at hand. 

"You made us afraid, just like you wanted. And you made us angry, which I'm sure you must've expected — like I said, you Shakespeare'd your way through that speech like it was something familiar, like you're the champ of that sadist fucking rodeo. But we didn't have the numbers or the guns to fight back, and we weren't so broken that we were ready to just fall down and kiss your boot heels — so we ran." Her shoulders shift and she shakes her head like she's letting out a slight laugh. "You know, I'd give a whole lot to have seen your face when you showed up to collect your taxes and realized all we'd left was one last 'fuck you', but I'm going to get to see your face before you die, and I think that makes up for it.

"So we stayed on the move, and we stayed quiet, and when we figured you must have found some new poor fucks for your target practice, we found somewhere quiet and we settled down. And weeks go by and then months go by and then who the fuck shows up on our doorstep? Drives into town in some four-door shitheap with only one asshole for backup instead of the usual crew and settles in for the night on our streets? You know, at first I couldn't believe it when a scout ran up and told me what she'd seen, but lo-and-fucking-behold, here you are. Looks like that great big karmic pendulum is swinging back in my favor this time, and I assure you, I don't intend to let this opportunity go to waste.

"There's only one way this story plays out, Negan, and you don't survive to see the end of it."

Tori rolls out her shoulders, like she's got all the time in the world, and you figure she probably does. She's had all night to set up this game board exactly the way she wants it and now she has the privilege of sitting back and watching the pieces play out.

"Now that we're all on the same page, it's time to take this thing to the fucking finish," she continues. "So here's what happens next — we don't give a shit about whatever worthless fuck you've got with you, although if she's taken your side, I don't doubt she's just as deserving of what you've got coming to you—"

You can't really blame her, given the current situation. Can't really fault her for coming to that conclusion, and you figure that in her shoes, you'd probably think the same.

Doesn't make it any easier to hear.

"—but right now, Negan, I'm John Travolta and you're Olivia Newton-John and guess what, Sandy? _You're_ the one that I want. But since I've got a level of magnanimity you can't fucking imagine, I am going to extend you a courtesy that you never offered me and my own — I'm going to give you a choice.

"You can both surrender, right here, right now. You can come down with your hands up and guns lowered and give us all the shit you've got—including the keys to your shitheap car—and as a reward for making my life a little simpler, I'm going to let your sidekick go free. You're the only one who needs to die here, Negan, and if you both give yourselves up without a fight, I won't take out your sins on her. You have my word on that.

"Or—if you decide you'd rather take everyone down with you on the Titanic—you can stay up there or come out guns blazing or try to run or what-the-fuck-ever last-ditch idea you've got, and my friends and I and our fifteen guns will end that story nice and quick. And, in that scenario? Hey, fun fact, you _both_ die. Now that's not how I want to play this out—after all, you don't deserve anything _nearly_ so quick—but if you're only going to give up kicking and screaming, fuck, I'll take what I can get.

"You've got fifteen minutes to make up your mind before we come in and make the choice for you. Whichever way you decide, I'll be right here waiting."

Tori lowers her head slightly, turning to a woman on her right to say something quiet enough that you can't hear. And they must have been orders of some kind because the next thing you see are four of her soldiers taking up posts with their guns trained on the windows and front door like they're gearing up for some fucked-up game of whack-a-mole. You and Negan only have a view onto the street below, but you don't doubt for a second that she told the truth about having seven of her people covering your car around the corner, that she's planned for every outcome, fenced you in at every turn. With steps easy as anything, she crosses the street to take a seat in the shade of a storefront awning, looking for all the world like a commander getting ready to direct her troops across the battlefield. 

You wonder for the second time in as many days if this is how you die.

Up in the room, it's quiet in the wake of her speech, with you trying to process the terms of her ultimatum and Negan thinking...honestly, fuck only knows. After another few beats, he rises from his spot by the window and starts to pace an absent back-and-forth across the carpet, one hand scraping over his jaw as he walks in silence, leaving you wondering how to start the hard conversation that has to come next.

"Fucking dick-kicking shitting mother-fuck-fucking shitbag _fuck_." He lets out a loud exhale and sinks down onto the couch, elbows resting on his knees and body canted forward and a harsh laugh sitting on his tongue.

"Shitfuck _fucking_ _fuck._ "

You shift in your seat by the window, working to keep your breathing calm and your heart rate slow as you look his way.

"Get it all out of your system?"

"No. Fuck." Negan closes his eyes. "Motherfucking fucked _fuck_." He lets out a slow breath, scrubs a hand over his face, opens his eyes and meets your raised eyebrows. "Fucking yeah, alright, I'm done."

"Cool. Now we have fourteen-and-a-half minutes to figure out how not to die. What do we do?"

"You know, sweetheart, it may surprise you to find out that I've never actually been in a scenario like this before. Fucking weirdly enough, it's not every day I find myself up shit fucking creek sitting on my fucking thumbs with fifteen fucking guns pointed at my head."

"Look, I know you're joking, but I actually _am_ surprised that this is the first time your whole 'give me your shit or you die' approach has backfired." Negan lifts his head to look your way, mouth in a tight line and expression distinctly unamused. You raise your hands in surrender. "Yeah, fine, okay — so maybe now _isn't_ the time for constructive criticism. Fair enough." You chance a look behind you, eyes skating across the panorama of gunmetal-gray barrels, fingers itching to lower the blinds and shut-out the harsh reality beyond the window.

"Alright, however much time we had left before? Now there's less."

At your words, Negan reaches out to hook his fingers around the duffel strap and tug it towards the couch, fishing into a side pocket for a small analog watch that he checks before buckling it around his wrist. "Let's say thirteen minutes from here — fucking _fuck_ , that is not exactly a whole lot of time."

"Yeah, it's almost like she _doesn't_ want to give us the chance to find some loophole and escape into the sunset. Weird."

Negan doesn't respond to that, and you don't blame him.

"Listen, we both know that time is going to run out faster than we think, so let's not waste the seconds we've got right now. What are our options? What can we do?" You pull yourself up out of the chair and cross the room to stand in front of Negan, eyeing him carefully as he taps his fingers together. "For someone who's never at a loss for words, god _damn_ , did you pick a shitty moment to go silent."

"Trying to fucking think, sweetheart."

"Hey, _fucking same_ — but while I'm sure you're used to solving this kind of shit on your own, right now, we are very much in this together. So whatever's on your mind, why don't you share with the class."

He looks up at you, expression steady and unreadable as the matte plastic of a Halloween mask. "I'm thinking that the way this morning is shaping up, I'm likely fucked — scratch that, _royally fucking fucked_. We are out-fucking-numbered and out-fucking-gunned and I've been on the other side of this equation enough to know the way this thing typically plays out. Now, don't get me wrong, I fucking love living, and have done a lengthy fucking list of not-so-pretty things to keep it that way, but I want to set that aside for a quick fucking second to know why the fuck we're not talking about you."

Your brows pull together on a reflex, the abrupt change sending you off-balance like someone's just spun your axes. "Me? What about me?"

"Don't have the seconds to waste for you to play ignorant, sweetheart — you've got a way out of this—easy as following a piss-bright yellow brick road—and you're a fucking fool if you're not thinking about it."

"What, you're talking about that bullshit deal she offered? Is that a joke?" You're looking at Negan to see if you can figure out what the punchline is supposed to be, but all he's giving you is that level stare like he's waiting for you to put the pieces together a little faster.

"Why the fuck would it be?" He asks, tone entirely too even for the current situation, too steady compared to the tremors you're fighting to keep from your own voice. "Don't you want to survive, sweetheart? Didn't we just have a chat about this — didn't you _just_ fucking tell me that you don't want to die? The fuck happened to that?"

"God, I can't believe _you_ of all people are trying to have this conversation," you say, blinking your eyes shut for a moment as you let out a humorless laugh. "Ignoring for a goddamn second that we have no way of knowing if she's telling the truth, and ignoring that, if we surrender, there is nothing stopping her from just shooting me right there on the street—ignoring for one fucking moment that she clearly hates you like it's her goddamn job and she has less than no reason to do a good turn for anybody working with you—setting all that aside, you're telling me that I should ask you to give up your life for mine. You get that, right? That my way out of this is your road to a fucking executioner. Are you _kidding_ me?" You open your eyes, shaking your head and ignoring whatever fucking look Negan is giving you. "Since when are you so willing to put your life on the line for someone else? The fuck happened to your whole 'my first priority is myself' bullshit?"

"Believe me, if I thought I saw a way out, I'd fucking _take it_. But guess goddamn what? Just because I want a way out does not mean I fucking get one. Last thing I want is to reach the end of the line, but I'm not such a fucking coward that I can't admit when that moment's coming. Fairly fucking positive this is it for me — no fucking reason it has to mean the same for you."

And you don't really know what to do with the unflinching edge in his expression or the sudden reversal in perspective or the black-and-white certainty in his tone, and it's an effort not to look away as you respond. "No, it's a shit deal and we're wasting our time talking about it."

"No, it's time to wake the _fuck_ up," Negan says, his tone sharpening. "News alert at fucking eleven, sweetheart — I did not make it this fucking far by shutting my eyes every time things took an unpleasant fucking turn. You know why it's someone like me who runs the Sanctuary? Because unlike every fucking pissbag coward who figured picking up a fucking machine gun was the same as finding a pair of balls, I fucking _never_ backed down from making the tough fucking calls. And this? Jesus _shit_ — look around! This isn't fucking Kansas anymore, Dorothy. I can tell you right fucking now that we are not both going to make it out alive from this one, but there is _no_ fucking reason that we both have to die. Fuck me — I thought you knew better than this. Didn't think for a fucking second you could be _this_ fucking naive."

You feel anger shoot through you, white hot enough to set your fingers trembling, sudden enough to stamp out the fear you've been feeling and the confusion sparked by Negan's words. "Friendly fucking reminder that I haven't spent the past few years sitting pretty behind those big walls — that I've been living in this shit every goddamn moment since the world first fell apart. You think you're the only one who's had to make hard choices? You think you're the only one who knows what that's like? _Fuck you_." You take a slow breath, lacing your fingers behind your neck as you try to bring your anger back under control. "I'm not saying we won't have to make a tough call, but I'm not willing to believe _that's_ the right one. Not yet. Not when we haven't even considered any other options. So will you just pump the goddamn brakes and can we think this through first? Please?"

Negan pauses, considering the unguarded look on your face carefully before relenting with a slight roll of his eyes. "Fuck, fine." His eyes glance down to the clock face at his wrist. "If you want to spend the next eleven minutes with your head buried in the fucking sand digging for a deus ex fucking machina, be my fucking guest. But let's be clear sweetheart, that first option is still sitting on the table."

"Let's at least figure out what else we've got." You turn away from Negan to glance around the room, like if you keep your eyes restless and moving, they'll put together some answer you haven't found yet. "Besides," you say, working to keep your tone light, as if that could defuse some of the tension in the room, "you risked your life for mine yesterday. Pretty sure today, it's my turn." But when you shift back to face Negan, there's no answering half-smile on his face, no acknowledgement for your half-ass effort at a joke.

"You want to know why I went after you?" He asks after a beat, voice low and more serious than you expect.

"Yeah, of course."

"Well, fuck you, sweetheart, I don't owe you an answer to fucking anything. But I'll say this much — it fucking was not because I wanted you to feel like your life was indebted to mine. Understand? Fucking did not save your life just so you'd feel obligated to soak up some bullets if I ended up in some shitbag's crosshairs. And _when_ push comes to shove—and make no fucking mistake, that moment is coming surer than one of my wives getting her clit sucked by yours truly—understand that I have _no_ fucking intention of asking you to die for me. We clear on that?"

And no part of this moment is something you ever could have expected — nothing from the guns lined up outside the window like paparazzi lenses to the almost-disappointed edge in Negan's tone as he watches you closely. You don't know what to make of the words themselves or whatever meaning he's obscuring behind them, and you don't know how to reconcile this apparent explanation of altruism with a man you've always understood to be anything but. It's nine different kinds of confusing and you wish you had the minutes to give this moment some more thought, but you know you barely have the seconds to spare yourself an extra breath, and whatever curiosity you want to spend on Negan will have to wait until you find out if you're even making it out of this one alive.

"Yeah, we're clear. But if that's the case, then don't fucking expect me to ask the same of you." You don't back down from the look he's giving you, meeting his stare just long enough to get your point across. "Anyway, time is still ticking and I'm still very much in favor of not dying, so let's get to work."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun facts about this chapter:  
> \- while dicking around on google maps to find a town name in Virginia somewhat-close to the real Alexandria, I stumbled across towns called 'dragonville' and 'friendship' so, what the fuck is up with that, virginia  
> \- Tori's name was inspired by the word _ultor_ , which is Latin for 'avenger' because a) I think it's cool and b) I'm a classics-loving fuck
> 
> going forward, just assume that until this fic is done, I am always going to be sorry for my infrequent posting schedule. I honestly can't remember how long it's been since I last updated, and that probably says a lot.
> 
> (also, is it weird if I respond to comments, like, _months_ after they're posted? I'm clearly not good at handling things in a timely fashion but I still want to express my thanks for all the genuinely kind words I've received. anyway someone please tell me if this is okay)
> 
> as always, thanks to my stellar beta [TheBannedAuthor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBannedAuthor/pseuds/TheBannedAuthor) \-- I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help but I can sure as shit try at the end of every chapter
> 
> (i'm also on [tumblr](http://thatsparrow.tumblr.com/), etc.)
> 
> thanks again for reading and sorry-not-sorry for another cliffhanger and I'll see you all at the next update!


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